Treacherous
by missmandamargo
Summary: A collection of unrelated oneshots for Quinntana Week 2013.
1. Day 01: PopularNerd

_Treacherous_

A collection of Quinntana oneshots for Quinntana week 2013

Day 01: Nerd/Popular

_put your lips close to mine, as long as they don't touch_

Quinn wasn't paying attention to what Mrs. Pruitt said to elicit a collective groan of protest from her classmates, but she does look up when she hears her name being called. She adjusts her glasses on her face and straightens a bit in her seat, attempting to appear as if she has any idea what is going on.

"Ms. Fabray, you'll be paired with Ms. Lopez, and your assignment is Shakespearean sonnets."

Quinn glances towards the front of the room, where Santana Lopez sits arm-in-arm with Brittany Pierce. They have their heads together, whispering, and Santana doesn't even glance upwards when her name is mentioned. Quinn represses a sigh, because she knows how this is going to go – she'll do all of the work, and Santana will sign her name at the top of every page. Quinn knows it will probably be the best grade Santana will ever have in this class, and they won't say two words to each other.

Quinn has been in this position before, during science projects and research papers. Teachers love to pair her up with the more popular kids who are too lazy or too stupid to do their own work. Quinn bristles when she remembers the two weeks she had to spend with Noah Puckerman during chemistry, and thanks God that she won't have to put up with anything like that when it comes to Santana.

Artie Abrams, beside her, gives her an apologetic smile. Artie knows the drill. He doesn't even flinch when he hears that he's been paired with Brittany. He does, however, clutch his hands together nervously when Santana turns around in her seat to look him over with dark, venomous eyes. Quinn is curious about that – how is it that Santana is more interested in Brittany's partner than her own? – but she decides not to let it bother her too much. She doesn't want to begin to understand how the minds of cheerleaders work.

"See you after school?" Artie asks, once the bell rings. Quinn helps him move his textbooks into his backpack.

"Yeah," Quinn says. They have a debate club meeting.

Quinn dodges through the sea of students, clutching a notebook to her chest. She feels invisible, and the way that other people push past her just reinforces that feeling. She stops at her locker and is too busy sliding the dial around to notice Santana Lopez materialize next to her.

"Hey, Pollyanna,"

Quinn jolts, nearly dropping her notebook, and stares at Santana with wide eyes. Santana leans against the row of lockers with deliberate casualness, not looking directly at her. Quinn takes in the short red Cheerios skirt and the dark curly ponytail in half a second, as well as the pale pink nail polish that matches the color of Santana's lip gloss almost perfectly. An instant later, Quinn becomes aware of the way she smells – like rich, exotic flowers. Santana is, all at once, looming larger than life next to Quinn, and Quinn is almost breathless at the sudden shift in her reality. She's been _aware _of Santana since they were in eighth grade together, but she doesn't think they've ever actually said anything to each other.

"When is this assignment due, again?" Santana pulls a nail file out of nowhere and begins to buff her nails.

"Uh," Quinn stutters, and then swallows. Her cheeks flare red, and she stares down at her lock. "Two weeks from Thursday."

"Great." Santana says dryly. "Your house or mine?"

Quinn blinks. "Excuse me?"

Annoyed, Santana turns to look at her. Quinn tries not to flinch at the moment of eye contact they make, before Santana's continue on a cursory journey down her body. For some reason, it makes Quinn feel hot all over, and incredibly awkward – she yanks her sweater down and turns, suddenly, jerking her locker door open.

"You know," Santana says, almost thoughtfully. "You're not completely unfortunate looking. Why do you dress like that?" She has a look on her face like she's smelled something slightly unpleasant.

Quinn scoffs. "If you're just going to insult me, you can forget it."

Santana's eyebrows rise, scrunching up her forehead. "Suit yourself, Lynn." She thrusts herself away from the lockers, bouncing on the heel of her white sneakers. "Find me after school. We'll get started at my house."

Quinn's cheeks are an embarrassing shade of red, so she doesn't look up as Santana walks away.

"Quinn," she whispers, shoving her books into her locker. "My name is Quinn."

Xxx

"You're saying that she wants to actually participate?" Artie asks, incredulity written all over his features.

Quinn nods, staring resolutely at the notecards in front of her. The rest of the debate team is working in groups, going over the subjects expected to be brought up during the next meet with Carmel High.

"Well, that could be good," Artie says delicately, his eyebrows rising.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I think I'd prefer it if she let me do all the work."

Artie nods. "Well, she _is_ Santana Lopez, after all."

"She's a bitch," Quinn says, with feeling. "She's going to make this much harder than it has to be."

"You'll get through it." Artie smiles at her. "How bad could it be?"

Almost as if on cue, the door to the classroom bangs open and everyone turns to gawk. Quinn, with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, turns slowly, and – of course – Santana is standing framed in the doorway, a fist on her hip.

"Hey! Pepper Ann!"

Quinn flinches, gripping her pen. "Jesus Christ," she mutters.

"I think you'd better go," Artie does his best not to smirk, but he fails.

Gritting her teeth, Quinn scoots her chair back forcefully, and yanks her backpack up from the ground. The rest of the debate club members stare at her as she walks out, and she makes a point of closing the door behind her.

Santana taps her foot impatiently on the linoleum. "What gives? I told you to come find me. School's been out for an hour."

Quinn stares at Santana for a full beat before answering. "I had plans."

Santana cocks an eyebrow. "This dweeb meeting is more important than the English assignment?"

Quinn prays for patience. "Yes."

"Look, here's the thing, blondie," Santana begins, her tone biting. "I'm taking time out of my day to get this thing taken care of, so why don't you show a little bit of consideration, here?"

"Excuse me?" Quinn can't believe this. "I have prior obligations, Santana. I have responsibilities. I can't just drop everything because you—"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just go."

Quinn huffs, biting the inside of her cheek in order to swallow every acidic remark that comes to mind. Her eyebrows pinch on her forehead, and she grips her pen tightly. Santana stomps away without a backwards glance, and Quinn follows – because, what choice does she have?

"Do you have a car? Can you just follow me to my house?"

Quinn shakes her head.

"Great, now I'm a taxi," Santana grumbles. "Here. Get in."

Quinn is used to having to hold her tongue, but she finds it hard to do around Santana. Something about her just rubs Quinn the wrong way – she feels it like static along her skin, irritating and abrasive.

Santana's car is sleek, black, and shiny – expensive. The interior is black leather, and Quinn tries not to grimace at the collection of empty Starbucks cups and receipts littering the passenger floorboard. Santana checks her makeup in the rearview mirror as Quinn buckles up, and doesn't offer any apologies or excuses for the mess. Santana ignores Quinn completely, starting the ignition, and she turns the radio up to drown out any possibility of conversation.

Quinn stares out the car window, her backpack in her lap. Santana drives too fast, too reckless, and Quinn squeezes her fingers into fists so tightly her knuckles hurt.

By the time they park in front of Santana's nondescript house in the suburbs, Quinn is almost sweating from adrenaline. Her hands shake as she unbuckles her seatbelt, and she slides out of the car, flooded with relief.

Santana leads Quinn up to the front door, opens it and flies through, not bothering to shut it behind her. Quinn, more tentatively, follows behind, closing the door slowly.

Santana has a nice house, that much is plain. The air inside is thick and heavy, laden with the smell of spices Quinn is unfamiliar with. She doesn't see Santana anywhere – she's left to stand in Santana's foyer alone – but she hears her, shouting in rapid Spanish.

Cautiously, Quinn tip-toes through an archway, and she sees Santana standing over a little boy seated at a table. She scowls, a hand curled around an apple, and gestures emphatically to the paper in front of the little boy.

"No, you idiot, that's a conjunction –"

"Santana!"

Quinn assumes it's Santana's mother hollering at her from the kitchen.

Santana sighs, glancing upwards, and Quinn feels her body jolt when Santana's eyes lock into place with hers. She gives an annoyed grimace. "Do you want an apple? Or a banana?"

"Who's that?" The little boy looks up. His hair is shaggy and falling into his eyes. He pushes at it with the back of his wrist.

"None of your business, squirt," Santana shoves at his shoulder. "Write 'do not' there."

"Santanita, who's your friend?"

Quinn's attention is drawn to the doorway leading from the dining room to the kitchen, and Santana turns to regard the woman standing there. She has long burgundy hair is wearing a stained apron, but Quinn notices the glint of gold at her wrists and the jewels on her fingers.

"This is, um – Kate." Santana says, gesturing with the hand holding her apple in Quinn's direction.

Quinn scowls, steps forward, and then offers Mrs. Lopez her best, for-adults-only smile.

"My name is Quinn Fabray. It's nice to meet you."

"Oh, very nice to meet you, too," Mrs. Lopez smiles brightly. "You call me Maribel, honey. Are you and Santana—?"

"Ma," Santana cuts in, frowning. "We're partners on an English assignment. That's _all,_"

"Oh, mija," Mrs. Lopez raises her eyebrows conspiratorially at Santana. "She's very pretty—"

"MA!"

Quinn studies Santana thoughtfully, and Santana starts yelling at her mother in Spanish.

The little boy grins, looking between the two women, who are now screeching unintelligibly.

They're interrupted by the arrival of another girl – Santana's sister, by the looks of her – barreling in, shoving them apart. Quinn doesn't understand Spanish, but she thinks the little girl is requesting some kind of snack. She's probably ten; is also tall and skinny. Santana scowls at her darkly, and yanks on her long, loose braid. The kid squeals, whipping around, and Santana laughs until her mother pinches her on her arm.

"Ouch!" She glares at her mother. "What was that for?"

"Santana!" Maribel looks like she's on the verge of a mental breakdown. "Leave your sister alone."

"Let's go, Hillary," Santana grouses, pushing past her sister to hook a palm around Quinn's elbow. "This is a circus."

"Tch!" Santana's mother makes a noise of disgust.

"I _just_ told you my name," Quinn says, her tone dubious, as Santana guides her past a den strewn with plastic toys, and then up a flight of stairs. "Like, five seconds ago. My name is _Quinn,"_

"Yeah, yeah," Santana shoots Quinn a narrow look, before pushing into her bedroom. "I heard you, Squeaky,"

"Is it really so hard to call someone by their name?" Quinn tries not to gawp at Santana's room, which is dark and so – so _disorganized._ She picks over piles of dirty clothes on the floor, her eyes widening at the crumpled paper balls and various knick knacks strewn over every hard surface. Everything in Santana's room clashes: the bedspread, the posters on the walls, the furniture. It creates a kind of panicked, unsettled feeling in the pit of Quinn's stomach, and she swallows, hugging her bag to her chest.

Santana doesn't seem to notice. She immediately walks over to her closet, opens it, and begins unzipping her Cheerios uniform. Quinn is too preoccupied with being aghast at the chaos of Santana's room to really notice it, but within a moment Santana is nearly naked, down to a bra and panties. She yanks on a white gym t-shirt and turns to find Quinn rooted in the spot, still in the center of her bedroom.

"Will you sit down, you weirdo?"

Quinn snaps her jaw shut and shuffles over to perch, delicately, on the edge of Santana's bed. She squeezes all of her muscles tight, as if to avoid touching the wrinkled bedspread. Quinn feels like the messiness is contagious.

"How do you _live_ like this?" Quinn can't keep the disgust out of her tone.

"What?" Santana pulls up a pair of gym shorts, squinting at Quinn.

Quinn shudders.

"Are you some kind of OCD freak?"

Quinn grimaces. "_No_." She shifts. "I just like things to be – neat."

"Yeah," Santana laughs, shaking her head. "You're definitely one of those crazies, like the counselor. Do you clean the bathroom with a toothbrush?"

Quinn glares at the back of Santana's head. Santana is oblivious. She bends down to uncover a laptop hidden beneath a haphazard pile of clothes.

She plops down next to Quinn on the bed, her back against the headboard. Quinn shifts, adjusting herself, and very cautiously pushes herself upwards on the bed until they're sitting next to each other. Santana is tapping away at her keyboard, pulling up an empty word document and a Google search. Delicately, Quinn unzips her backpack, and pulls out their English textbook.

"Do you even know what a sonnet _is?"_ Quinn asks.

Santana turns to look at Quinn, very slowly, and Quinn feels heat rise up in her cheeks.

"Look here, Poindexter," She has acid in her tone. "I don't like this anymore than you do – you think I want your geek germs all over my room? No. You think I'd rather be here with you than at the mall with Brittany? No."

"Then why—"

Santana narrows her eyes. "It's my grade, too, pipsqueak. Just because you look like a female Stephen Hawking doesn't mean you have the brains of one. Got it?"

"I think I can handle this assignment, _Santana,_" Quinn slaps the English textbook closed. "Just take me home."

Santana taps her thumb against the laptop, studying Quinn with dark, impenetrable eyes. Quinn flushes under the scrutiny, and stares at her lap, trying not to squirm.

"You don't get out much, do you?" Santana muses. "A sonnet is a poem made up of fourteen lines, usually written in iambic pentameter."

"What?" Quinn is a little thrown off by Santana's sudden change of subject.

"I know what a sonnet is," Santana smirks. "_Quinn_. So why don't you just settle down, and let's get this started?"

"Fine," Quinn mutters, flipping the textbook open to the chapter on Shakespeare.

She's surprised by most of what she's seen of Santana Lopez, so far – not the least of which, the fact that Santana knows what a sonnet is, and that she finally remembered her name.

* * *

"Hey, Squeaks,"

Quinn sighs and rolls her eyes. Santana is creeping along in her car next to the sidewalk that Quinn walks down, shouting through the passenger side window. Quinn squints, using her palm to shade her eyes. "What, Santana?"

"You need a ride?"

Quinn bites her lip. "We aren't working on the sonnets today."

"I know," Santana says, and flashes her a brief smile. "Do you need a ride?"

Quinn considers it for a moment before she shrugs and slides into Santana's car.

"Thanks," Quinn mutters.

"No problem." Santana slides a pair of sunglasses on her face, and then pulls into traffic without checking her blind spot. Quinn yelps as another car's horn blares out, and she quickly slips her seatbelt into place.

"You didn't have a meeting of the geek squad or whatever today?"

Quinn shakes her head.

"It's the Godsquad,"

Santana gives her an appraising look from behind her sunglasses.

"I'm a Christian," Quinn says, defensively. She doesn't know how Santana is always doing this to her – making her uncomfortable and edgy.

"Yeah, I got that," Santana drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "Why don't you have a car?"

Quinn frowns. "Could you be any more rude?"

"It's just a question!"

"I can't afford one," Quinn snaps.

Santana nods slowly. "So, you're poor?"

"Santana!" Quinn almost gasps. "Are you serious?"

"Is that why you dress like you get all of your clothes from the old lady section of the Salvation Army?" Santana frowns.

"Oh, my God," Quinn can't believe she's hearing this. "Please, just take me home and stop talking,"

"I think you need a makeover, Q," Santana says abruptly. "We can shop somewhere shabby-chic, like.. _Target._"

Quinn leans into her palm, rubbing her forehead. "Help me."

"No, listen," Santana sounds almost excited. "You really only need a few tweaks to your style and you'd be, like.. nerdy-cool. That's in, now, isn't it?" Santana bounces in her seat. "They call it hipster, don't they?"

"I don't know." Quinn groans. "Please stop talking about this."

"Just trade in those horrendous skirts for some, like.. skinny jeans. Throw on some makeup and a scarf or two and you'd be totally hot."

Quinn presses her face into the window and stares out, morosely.

"I'll take you shopping this weekend," Santana says. "You should be grateful. I don't usually give to the less fortunate, but I'll make an exception this time."

"Why do you even _care?_" Quinn asks.

Santana shrugs. "I like you all right, Q. You're not too bad. You just dress weird. You need some serious help with style, but otherwise, you're almost normal."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm trying to _help_ you," Santana insists. She pulls up in front of Quinn's house, and Quinn can't get out of her car fast enough.

"Just think about it, Fabray!"

Quinn shakes her head on the entire walk up to her house and through her front door.

She doesn't stop thinking about Santana Lopez for the rest of the night.

* * *

Quinn answers her door in pajamas, and she squints against the early morning sunlight. She wasn't prepared to see Santana dressed like that – it's the first time Quinn has ever seen her out of her Cheerios uniform – wearing a tight green dress with knee-high black boots. Her hair is down, for once, curled prettily around her face. She clutches a thin black purse in her hands and smiles brightly at Quinn.

"Hey, Squeaks. Good morning. Where's Judes?"

"Could you not call my mom that?" Quinn frowns, backs away from the doorframe, ushering Santana in. Santana breezes by as if she owns the place, though this is only her second time inside.

"Why the hell are you here at.." Quinn frowns, rubs one of her eyes, and glares down at her cell phone. "Nine o'clock? On a Saturday?"

"Early bird catches the worm," Santana says airily, and heedless, begins to walk through Quinn's house. Quinn follows behind her, slowly, taking in the sight of Santana Lopez rifling through stacks of envelopes on the coffee table and pulling open side table drawers.

"What are you _doing?"_

"Nothing," Santana tries to sound innocent. She rounds, suddenly, and faces Quinn. "Are you ready to go?"

"Go _where?"_ Quinn runs a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down.

"We're going shopping," Santana says. "Hey, you know something? In your PJs, you look almost normal,"

"Shut _up,_" Quinn grumbles. "I don't want to go shopping."

"You don't have a choice. Go put some clothes on."

Quinn hates every single thing about the mall, which she details loudly for Santana on the way there.

"It's full of brainless airheads with more money than sense," Quinn says, with a pointed look towards Santana. "It's a tacky example of overwhelming consumerism in America. People buy things they don't need with money they don't have – San_tana_!"

Santana swerves just in time to miss the dog darting across the street.

"You're all right," Santana says, glancing over at Quinn.

Quinn's heart is hammering in her chest.

"Look, we're here." Santana grins, pulling into a parking spot. "You can keep bitching about it after I've got you in some more acceptable clothes. I didn't really think about it, but –" She frowns slightly, her eyes skipping down Quinn's frame. "It's going to be really hard for me to be seen with you like this."

"Santana," Quinn's voice is dangerously low. "You're _such_ a bitch."

"Yeah," Santana arches a brow. "But at least I look good. You're a bitch who dresses like a grandma."

Quinn just rolls her eyes, but she gets out of the car when Santana does. The Lima mall is full of middle class families this early, which Quinn is almost grateful for. Most of the teenager won't be showing up until later in the day, after all of the mommies in sweatpants go home.

Santana pulls Quinn by her wrist into a Banana Republic, and doesn't even consult her as she starts pulling an assortment of blouses, skirts, tank tops, sweaters, and jean shorts together. Santana is like a concentrated whirlwind, moving through the racks of clothing. Occasionally she holds something up to Quinn, as if to check the size, but for the most part, she's determined and doesn't stop to talk.

"I can't wear _that_," Quinn squeaks. The shirt Santana holds is thin, flimsy, and almost transparent. "Santana. I'll look like a whore."

"You'll look fine. Sexy." Santana brushes her aside, adding the shirt to the pile.

"I can't afford any of this," Quinn says, after checking the price tag on one of the sweaters.

"I got it, Q," Santana says with a shrug. "Don't worry about it."

"I don't want you spending money on me," Quinn grumbles.

"Hey." Santana is comparing two shirts in the same style, but different colors. "Look at it this way – it's kind of like charity. I'm sure my dad can get a tax write-off or something."

"I don't think it works that way," Quinn says.

"Whatever," Santana shrugs, and leads Quinn towards the dressing room. "Try these on."

"There's like fifty different things here," Quinn stares at them. "I'm not trying everything on."

"Yes, you are," Santana insists, pushing her into the stall.

Quinn reluctantly sheds her own clothes, all the while staring at the myriad of hangers with all the different clothes on them. She plucks delicately through them, her brow wrinkling critically at some of the choices. "Santana – are you _serious?"_

"What?" Santana's voice is muffed through the dressing room door.

"No. No, no, no," Quinn ticks off, shaking her head emphatically, even though nobody can see it. "I'm not even going – _this is indecent,_"

"Quit being such a baby, Quinn," Santana's voice is closer, now, as if she's standing just outside the door. "Try something on."

Quinn yanks a pair of dark jeans off of a hanger, and pulls them on. "These aren't the right size," She grouses. "They're too tight."

"They're _supposed_ to fit like that," Santana says. "Just open the door, Q, I'll help you."

"I don't need your help!" Quinn snaps. "I can put a pair of jeans on!"

"Coulda fooled me!"

Quinn scowls at the door, before shaking her head, and pulling on the first blouse she sees. It's a pastel pink color and it bunches at the waist. "Ick."

Santana bangs impatiently on the door. "Open up, Fabray."

Quinn jerks it open, her hair a flyaway mess. "Look, Santana, I'm tired of being your little fashion experiment –"

Santana chuckles, shaking her head. "You aren't wearing this right. Here," She uses soft, deft hands to adjust the top on Quinn, tugging and pulling. Quinn wills herself to stand still and not lash out, though her patience is wearing thin.

She notices, by degrees, the closeness of Santana. She's reminded sharply of the first day – how Santana's presence was like a physical force, slamming into her. Santana is larger than life, full of zapping, buzzing energy; and this close, Quinn can feel the warmth of Santana's skin, and can catch the smell of her. She holds her breath, because she's suddenly overwhelmed by heat, and it makes the color of her cheeks darken.

"There," Santana tilts her head, and steps back. "I wouldn't wear that shirt with those pants, but – it's an improvement. Your shoes, though.." Santana grimaces. "You need a haircut, too,"

"I'm not cutting my hair," Quinn says with a sigh.

"Of course you aren't," Santana sounds like she's humoring her. "Let's go get you some heels."

"I don't _want_ any heels," Quinn mutters. "Santana, this is ridiculous. What are you doing?"

"I told you," Santana's voice has an edge of impatience to it. "I'm helping you."

Quinn pauses and takes a moment to look Santana over, and the moment hangs between them, still and breathless. Quinn has the strangest urge – to reach out, pull Santana close, to kiss her. She doesn't know where these feelings come from, or why she has them so suddenly; but it makes her throat tight, so she swallows, and finally just nods. "Okay."

Santana brightens on a smile. "Good. Get those. We'll just buy everything."

Quinn almost stutters. "Santana, _no_—"

"Stop arguing," Santana holds up a palm to silence her. "You know what you need?"

Quinn stares, unbelieving, at Santana. She waits a beat, and then says, "What?"

"Panties." Santana grins. "I bet you're wearing some kind of granny panties under there, aren't you?"

Quinn narrows her eyes.

"It's okay, Q. I'll save you from yourself. Let's go."

Quinn just sighs.

Half an hour later, Quinn's arms are full of bags, and Santana is dragging her into a Victoria's Secret.

"Just, like, five new sets, Quinn. You can keep rocking the panty-line on the weekends." Santana pulls her towards a bin full of thongs. "What's your favorite color?"

"Oh, are you actually interested in my input, now?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "I think red would look good on you."

Quinn shakes her head. "Green. I'd rather green."

Santana digs through the bin, and Quinn holds up one thong, eyeballing it critically. "People actually pay money for this? It's, like, some strings. It's not proper underwear."

Santana grimaces. "Please stop talking. You sound like you're fifty."

Quinn puts the thong back down.

"What trauma happened to you, anyway, to make you so stunted?" Santana asks, while still browsing for an appropriate thong.

"Were you dropped on your head as an infant?" Quinn scowls. "You're so _rude,"_

"I just tell it like it is, Q," Santana says with a shrug. "Here, these'll do. You want bras, too?"

"No." Quinn answers immediately.

Santana turns to regard Quinn, using her hand on Quinn's shoulder to straighten her. She very pointedly stares at Quinn's chest, and Quinn has to fight the urge to cross her arms.

"I bet you need some," Santana says, with a tut of disapproval. "What's your cup size?"

Quinn's cheeks burn, and she turns away from Santana without a word. Santana follows close behind her, and then grabs the crook of her elbow to steer her over to a wall with bras displayed. Quinn stands back, defeated, while Santana goes about trying to match bras to the thongs she's already picked out.

_I can always return the clothes and keep the money,_ Quinn thinks, a little spitefully.

"All right. Do you need me to show you how to put these on?" Santana pulls Quinn towards the dressing room, and Quinn is getting tired of being tossed around like a ragdoll.

"No," Quinn snaps.

"I'll help you," Santana says anyway, and pushes Quinn ahead of her into the tiny dressing room. She shuts the door and pulls the latch, securing it. Quinn huffs, dropping the bags of clothes they already bought, and turns to face Santana.

"Take your shirt off," Santana says, unclipping one of the bras from its hanger.

Quinn hesitates, feeling that odd tugging in her body again, at the prospect of being topless around Santana. But Santana isn't even looking at her; instead, she's adjusting the straps on the bra, and Quinn shakes her head, mostly at herself, and pulls her shirt over her head. She turns around, with her back to Santana, and reaches behind her to undo the clasp.

Santana's hand brushes hers aside, and Quinn straightens, holding her breath, as Santana unsnaps her bra. Wordlessly, Quinn slides her bra down her shoulders, and she reaches behind her, blindly.

A moment passes, and Quinn is on the brink of looking over her shoulder at Santana, but then she feels Santana behind her. Santana's arms come over hers, brushing down the length of them, and she holds the bra open for Quinn to step into. Quinn's breath hitches in her throat, and she tries not to suffocate from the sensation of Santana pulling the straps tight, adjusting the buckle. Quinn stands stock still, almost paralyzed, because Santana's breath on the back of her neck gives her chills, and she feels weak and dizzy.

"Turn around," Santana orders, and her voice is low. Quinn does so, slowly, and she notices immediately that Santana hasn't stepped back. Now they're face-to-face, and Quinn's breath explodes in a surprised puff. She bites her bottom lip, hard, and her body shivers when Santana settles her palms low on her waist. They radiate heat.

"Lookin' good," Santana murmurs. Her eyes are dark and intense, and they search between Quinn's – her face holds an unspoken question, in the subtle tilt of her head, the angle of her lips. Their bodies are almost flush together, and Quinn is overwhelmed, again, by the aura of Santana; like an electricity storm, all sparks.

"Thanks," Quinn breathes. She doesn't know what to say, or how to react. Her body almost shudders at the feeling of Santana's thumbs sweeping slowly over her hips, up and down, and she reaches out, blindly, to steady herself, by hooking her own hands around the curve of Santana's hips.

Santana smiles slowly, her eyes lidded and feline. There's something predatory in the look – something like triumph in her eyes – before she dips her head, angling towards Quinn. Quinn notices that their pelvises meet, first, and for some reason that sends a flash of liquid heat through her body – she inhales, sharply, at the feeling of her bare stomach pressing against the material of Santana's dress. Her fingertips feel cold and her palms are clammy, and her head swims as if she's drunk; she clutches, hard, at the ridges of Santana's hipbones, as if she needs them to stay upright.

"You okay?" Santana whispers, her lips barely a breath away from Quinn's.

Quinn swallows, tilts her chin in the tiniest of nods.

Santana smiles that same devilish smile, before she presses their lips together.

Quinn's throat squeezes out a hum, a helpless murmur of a noise, and something about that has Santana reaching up to cup her neck, holding her close. Santana's lips taste like cherry lip gloss, and her smell is even more intense this close – Quinn focuses on breathing, and how it feels like she's kissing lightning, because the amount of heat and static coming off of Santana is almost unreal. Santana's lips are huge and soft and gentle, but so hot they scald Quinn; Quinn swallows, sucking in a breath, and in a moment she feels Santana's tongue lapping against her lower lip. Quinn gasps from the shock of it, and Santana takes advantage by licking into her mouth.

Quinn grips Santana, hard, and tries not to moan at the sensation of Santana's tongue sweeping over hers, licking towards the back of her teeth. Santana kisses Quinn like she has all of the time in the world – slowly, deliberately, like Quinn is something to be sampled and savored; there is heat present, but no impatience, and it surprises Quinn, who has never been kissed this way. It feels like she's drowning, slowly, and also like she's falling – her body feels lights and floaty, and her blood roars in her head, through her ears. She clutches at Santana, keeping her close, because otherwise she feels the strength would drain out of her.

Santana pulls away for a breath, and then comes back, rubbing their lips together before coaxing Quinn's mouth open again. This time, Quinn kisses Santana back, stroking her tongue into Santana's mouth, and Santana's grip on Quinn tightens almost imperceptibly. Quinn thinks Santana tastes like dark, rich coffee – bitter and strong, a total head-rush. Quinn's heart rate picks up, kicking in her chest, and this time, when they pull away, Santana's eyes are glazed and almost liquid.

"You're all right," Santana says after a moment, and Quinn thinks she must be able to hear her heart hammering in her ribs.

"Yes," Quinn manages, weakly. She unlatches her hands from around Santana's waist, and they peel apart.

Santana's gaze is assessing, now that there's distance between them. Quinn blushes and turns around, quickly undoing the bra, and putting her own back on. She yanks her shirt over her head, and by the time she has her hair smoothed out, Santana appears to have come to some decision.

"Do you want to get out of here, Fabray?"

Quinn jerks around to stare at Santana. "What?" She blinks. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yeah," Santana nods. "I think so. If you are."

"Sure." Quinn bites her lip. "Santana, what—"

"Are you gay?" Santana asks suddenly.

"_What?"_ Quinn balks. "I don't – uh. I don't know."

"You seemed pretty gay a second ago," Santana says flatly.

"Um—"

"Do you want to find out?"

Quinn almost chokes. "What-?"

"I'm asking if you want to have sex, Quinn," Santana says, her tone dry and even. She runs the material of the discarded bra through her hands, but her eyes are set and steady, peering at Quinn.

"_Now? _With _you?"_

Santana chuckles. "Not right here. But back at your place. Yes, with me."

Quinn bites her lip. "I don't know, Santana."

Santana's eyebrows come together, then she shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Quinn doesn't say much as Santana pays for all of the bras and the thongs Quinn didn't even attempt to try on – she's quiet when they get in the car, too.

"Why do you want to have sex with me?" Quinn asks, finally. Santana glances at her from the corner of her eye.

"You're hot," Santana says, bluntly. "Beneath all the hippie-grandma clothes, that is."

Quinn makes a derisive noise.

"Oookay," Santana sighs. "I like you okay. You're pretty dope."

"Thanks," Quinn says, speculatively. "Do you want to like – date me?"

"What?" Santana sounds panicked. "What? Who said that? No! I don't want to date anybody. Christ."

Quinn narrows her eyes, glaring. "What exactly do you have in mind, then?"

"Jeeze, I don't know – we're friends, right? We could be friends who have sex." Santana squeezes the steering wheel apprehensively. "Look, I didn't know you'd be all weird about this. Forget I even said anything."

"I'm a Christian," Quinn says slowly. "I'm a virgin."

"Well no duh," Santana smirks. "Of course you are."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Quinn feels anger flash through her, hot and painful.

"Nothing, Q," Santana says with a grin. "Just forget it."

"If this is about, like – taking my virginity, or something – you—"

Santana stops her with a look. "What do you take me for? I'm not some meathead jock after your V-card, Quinn."

Quinn bites her tongue, lowering her gaze. She feels ashamed, all at once, and doesn't really know why.

When they pull up to Quinn's house, Santana stops her from exiting the car as quickly as possible. "Listen." She takes a breath, and Quinn's eyes finally rise to study Santana's face. "This went badly. I didn't mean for it be so awkward. I meant to say, I like you, Quinn. I'm attracted to you. If you want, I'd love to make you feel good. But if not, I still want to be your friend." Santana grins, a little self-conscious. "You know, after school and on the weekends. Can't have you stinking up my rep."

Quinn doesn't know if she wants to slap Santana or kiss her – two directly conflicting emotions that make her huff and then sigh. She's charmed by Santana's open honesty, though. Quinn never thought there were so many twists and turns to Santana, so many surprises.

"I have to think about it," Quinn admits. "This happened really fast."

Santana gives a brief nod, then shrugs. "It's just sex, Quinn. Once you have it, you'll see it's no big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal to me." Quinn says with a sigh. "Thanks for taking me shopping. I probably won't ever wear half of this, though."

"Even if you only wear half of it, it was money well spent." Santana squeezes Quinn's hands in hers. She seems almost apologetic, but she doesn't say anything else. Quinn slips out of Santana's car, gripping the shopping bags. Santana waits in the driveway until Quinn disappears inside of her house.

* * *

Sunday morning, Quinn calls Santana. She feels a like a pile of nerves, waiting for Santana to pick up.

"What's up, Squeaks?" Santana sounds easy and carefree.

It sets Quinn's jaw on edge.

"You have to take me on a date," Quinn says, without preamble. "Somewhere nice, with flowers and stuff."

"What? Why?" Quinn can hear the frown in Santana's voice.

"If you want to have sex with me, we have to go on a date first." Quinn twists the hem of her shirt between her thumb and forefinger.

"This is a lot of effort," Santana doesn't sound convinced. "You think you have a golden snatch or something, Q?"

"Jesus!" Quinn's voice breaks, and she hisses in a breath. "Do you have to be so _vulgar?_"

Santana laughs, and the sound makes Quinn's belly tighten.

"I'm a nice girl, Santana," Quinn says, almost indignant. "I don't just sleep with – _anyone._"

"I'm not just anyone." Santana sounds deadly serious. "You're getting the better end of this deal, I promise you."

"Just pick me up at 8," Quinn snaps.

Santana pauses, seems to debate it. "Fine," She gives an aggrieved sigh. "Fine, whatever you want, princess."

Quinn has a moment's flash of triumph, followed by a sudden rush of anxiety. They hang up, and Quinn buries her face in her pillows.

* * *

"I'm glad you decided to wear that," Santana says by way of greeting when Quinn answers the door. Santana is wearing another tight dress, this one black, and her hair is done up artfully, in a kind of twisty ponytail that Quinn can't begin to understand the how of it. Quinn doesn't feel underdressed, for once – she's wearing a billowy white sundress, and her hair is curled, flowing past her shoulders. Quinn feels pretty, which is an altogether new feeling, and the honest appreciation in Santana's eyes only makes her feel more confident.

"Thank you. You look lovely."

Santana smiles. "I know."

Quinn narrows her eyes at Santana, who shrugs, but takes her hand. They walk together to Santana's car, and Santana opens the door for her. Quinn can't help the pleased smile that creeps over her face.

"This is my first date," Quinn says, once Santana settles into the car next to her.

"I figured." Santana shrugs. "It's my first one, too, with a girl."

"Really?" Quinn tilts her head, looking Santana over.

Santana nods. "Usually, we don't.. " She gives a little smirk. "Sometimes, there's dinner after."

"Have you been with a lot of girls?" Quinn is genuinely curious.

"A few." Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "Why the twenty questions?"

"I just wanted to know." Quinn narrows her eyes. "Are they all girls we go to school with-?"

Santana just laughs. "I don't really kiss and tell, Quinn."

Quinn twists her fingers together in her lap.

"Don't you ever want to – to be with them? Like, as a girlfriend?"

Santana squares her shoulders, gives a little shake of the head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Quinn," Santana snaps. "I don't want any – relationship, okay? They aren't for me."

Quinn goes silent for a moment.

"But _why?"_

"God, you're obnoxious, you know that?" Santana grits her teeth. "Don't – just, mind your own business."

"Fine," Quinn's jaw clenches.

Santana is silent, and Quinn begins to wonder where they're going.

She's mildly surprised when Santana hops on the freeway and heads south, towards Dayton. She grips her hands into rigid fists as Santana, heedless to danger, zig-zags in and out of traffic.

"My father died in a car accident," Quinn says abruptly, mostly because apprehension coils in the pit of her stomach and makes her tongue swell, and the sun is fading fast on the horizon and everything is kind of a hazy blur.

Santana glances over at her, briefly, but doesn't slow down. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Quinn clutches her seatbelt, twisting it so tightly her knuckles turn white. "The speed limit is sixty-five."

"I know," Santana says, but – if anything – her foot presses even harder on the gas pedal. Quinn throws her quick, nervous glances, but she doesn't think Santana is doing it on purpose. She just genuinely doesn't realize how reckless she's being, and something about that _terrifies_ Quinn.

"Please slow down," Quinn breathes.

"Oh." Santana's eyebrows wing upwards. "_Oh_, okay." She taps her fingers against the steering wheel for a moment, allowing the car to slow down a fraction. "But it'll take forever for us to get there this way."

"That's all right." Quinn's speeding heart rate begins to decrease, slightly, and her muscles begin to relax. "At least we'll still be alive when we get there."

Santana laughs; a short, amused sound. "You're safe as a kitten in a picnic basket with me, Squeaks."

"I highly doubt that," Quinn bites her bottom lip and decides to bury her face in her arms, even at the risk of smudging her carefully-applied makeup, because she can't watch Santana's daredevil driving tactics anymore.

Somehow, Santana cuts an hour and a half drive down to forty-five minutes, and Quinn's knees are jelly when she finally steps out of Santana's car. Her mind is spinning with national car accident statistics, coupled with the number of fatalities, and how many of _those_ are at the hand of teenaged drivers. It makes her head ache and her throat tighten, but she lets Santana take her arm, anyway, and lead her towards the sandstone pathway that follows along the small strip that qualifies for entertainment in Dayton.

The air smells like the sea and of various food carts set up along the pathway, selling hotdogs and ice cream and gyros. Quinn realize she's hungry only after catching the scent of grilled onions, and she finds she's relieved when Santana pulls her towards a tiny Italian restaurant, nestled between a seafront souvenir shop and an arcade. Quinn feels almost overdressed – the restaurant is full of beach bums in cutoff khakis and flip-flops – but Santana looks at her with so much _force_ behind her eyes, Quinn can't find it in herself to feel self-conscious.

They sit at one of the smallest tables Quinn has ever seen, squeezed towards the back of the restaurant, and they don't have much arm room or legroom to speak of.

"How did you know about this place?" Quinn asks while her eyes scan the menu.

"My parents used to bring all of us kids down here for spring break. We'd spend the whole week on the beach." Santana's smiles are like quicksilver, flashing out of nowhere, sparkling and dazzling. "We'd get our faces painted and eat pineapple whip until we threw up. It was fun."

Quinn smiles, and she can imagine it in her head. She thinks that anywhere the Lopezes go must be full of loud chaos, but – oddly – it doesn't unsettle her. Quinn thinks that she might grow to like that kind of messiness; the kind that's made up of the similarities found only among families.

She realizes the only similarity between herself and her mother is their blonde hair – and her heart squeezes.

Santana flirts boldly with the waiter, and even manages to order them two glasses of wine without being carded. Quinn is suitably impressed with her daring, though she's even more worried, now, about the prospect of driving home.

Santana doesn't notice it, however, and Quinn tries to relax. Santana makes it easy, because she keeps the conversation going – Quinn realizes, with a start, that _this_ shouldn't feel as natural as it does. She can't imagine a reality where she has anything in common with Santana Lopez (and she _doesn't)_, much less one where she can share a meal in peace with her. Quinn wonders what it means.

When they're done, Santana pays, and leaves the waiter a generous tip. Quinn thinks it's mildly amusing the way Santana smiles at him and is so _obvious,_ but hey – it works for her. Santana guides her outside, and since the sun has set, it's chilly right off the water. Santana wraps an arm around Quinn's shoulders, hugging her close, and they walk hip-to-hip down the pathway. It isn't crowded, precisely, but clumps of people pass them on either side, hurrying from one site to another, dragging out the last hour before everything closed up for the night.

Santana stops at a small vendor cart and orders them two pineapple whips, which – Quinn comes to learn – is a kind of frozen treat, like ice-cream or sorbet. Quinn gets hers on a cake cone and can't help the happy flush that creeps up her cheeks. She feels a little bit like she's seven years old again as she bites into it, but it makes her smile nonetheless. Santana keeps their hands locked together as they walk, and Quinn is beginning to think they don't have a destination, precisely. There are streetlamps to their right and the lights coming from the buildings on their left, but the night is growing darker by the moment.

"Why did you bring me here?" Quinn asks, glancing towards Santana. "We've got an Italian restaurant in town – it's called Breadstix, isn't it?"

Santana nods, and Quinn watches her run her tongue over her pineapple whip.

"I didn't want to take you there," Santana says with a shrug. "I wanted to bring you someplace I've never taken anyone before – somewhere special."

Quinn's heart freezes in her chest, and she feels like the wind is knocked out of her; she struggles to breathe, and Santana turns to her, a line of concern between her brows. Quinn can hear, all at once, the kick-start of her pulse and she feels that her stomach tightens into a painful fist.

"What?" Santana's lips go up in a half-smile.

Quinn just shakes her head, and then presses forward, into Santana. Santana is surprised at the sudden weight of Quinn's hand on her back, but she doesn't have time to react before Quinn pushes their mouths together. Quinn can't taste much beyond the sticky-sweet pineapple, and their lips are cold, but Santana's bewilderment turns to passion in an instant; and then her arm comes up, holding Quinn low on her waist, and they're kissing in public, their free hands curled around dripping ice cream cones, and Quinn doesn't _care_, because Santana's mouth is hot and soft and fierce and gentle all at once, and it makes Quinn's skin tingle everywhere, and she can hear Santana's words in her mind like a whispered refrain: _somewhere special. Special, special, special_.

They kiss until they can't breathe anymore, until the pineapple whip is falling in melted rivulets down their hands, and Quinn knows her lips are swollen. Santana looks at her with a different kind of glint in her eye once they peel away – Quinn can see the way Santana calculates, though she couldn't say precisely what Santana is thinking.

She hopes, in a secret part of her, that Santana is thinking the same thing she is.

* * *

Quinn is nervous on the car ride back to her house, and she thinks Santana can sense it. She keeps rubbing her palm over Quinn's knee, and Quinn thinks it's meant to be reassuring, but instead it just makes nerves bounce and jolt in her belly. She doesn't say anything, and her mouth is incredibly dry, as they make their way back to Quinn's. She doesn't wait for Santana to help her out of the car. Instead, she takes quick, long steps up her driveway and onto her porch, and then lets herself inside without waiting for Santana.

Santana follows at an easy pace, but Quinn starts to feel like she's being chased. She swallows, and silently leads Santana up to her bedroom.

Santana doesn't force Quinn to say anything, and Quinn can't decide if she's more grateful or nervous about it. They stand, facing each other, in the middle of the bedroom, and Quinn feels like she's dying from the awkwardness of it.

Santana watches Quinn, and then gives a faint nod. She reaches down and peels the dress up and over her body, and Quinn's eyes go wide as every inch of skin is revealed. Quinn has a moment to notice Santana is wearing lacy black panties and a matching bra – but then she catches Santana's eye, and everything else sort of blanks. Santana stands in front of her with an eyebrow cocked, and it looks like a challenge to Quinn – Santana's hands are waist level, palms up, and it seems to Quinn that she's saying, _see, I'm naked, and I'm fine._

Well, knowing Santana, she's probably saying something more like, _look at this hot body_, but whatever.

Tremulously, Quinn reaches to pull her own dress off, and before she can think too much about it, she just does it.

Santana's eyebrows go up, and then she lets out a low whistle. Quinn's cheeks burn.

"Very nice."

"Thank you," Quinn whispers, and then pulls the comforter to her bed down. She knows it's probably silly – she should probably just get naked now – but she can't. Instead, she lies down, and then tugs the blanket on top of herself.

Santana gives her an odd little smile, and then climbs up onto the bed next to her, wiggling beneath the covers. Quinn's breath stutters in her body when Santana wraps her arms around her, tugging her close. Quinn inhales and then exhales, trying to slow her racing heart.

Santana kisses her on her ear, once, and then lies with their faces close together. Quinn stares at Santana, and it's then that she notices the lights are still on.

"The lights are on," Quinn whispers.

Santana smiles, strokes a hand down the length of Quinn's hair. "I know."

Quinn bites her lip.

Santana kisses her, slowly. Quinn holds her breath, waiting for the flash of heat, the dangerous spark to ignite along her nerves, turning her blood to fire. It doesn't happen. She's too distracted by the galloping of her heart and the copper taste of panic in the back of her throat.

"Santana, I—"

"It's okay," Santana murmurs, almost sweetly. Her eyes are heavy and lidded and dark, and Quinn sees something there she has never seen before. "We can just sleep, Quinn."

"Really?" Quinn feels a flood of relief. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Santana smiles, a full-cheeked smile, and her dimples wink out. Quinn wants to stroke them. Her hand runs the length of Santana's torso, coming to rest easily on her hip.

"You're really a big sweetheart, you know that?" Quinn says quietly.

Santana laughs, and the sound reminds Quinn of windchimes. "Don't tell anyone. You'll ruin my street cred."

Quinn snorts, but she's smiling, too.

They fall asleep like that, Quinn holding Santana close, their faces on the same pillow.

Quinn wakes up with Santana wrapped around her, a leg thrown over her hip, Santana's face nuzzled under her chin. Quinn thinks it's somewhere between dawn and true daylight, and her eyes feel swollen and strange. She's never shared this kind of intimacy with another person, never spent a whole night with her skin sticking to someone else's. She likes the way it feels – how the crooks of Santana smell like sleep, how her hair is wild and fans out from her head in a dark plume. She likes, most of all, the sound of Santana's pulse in the absolute silence.

"I love you," Quinn whispers, and doesn't even know why she's saying it. "I wish I didn't. But I love you."

Quinn never thought she'd ever find love – especially not with someone like Santana Lopez, a girl who, until a week ago, didn't even know her name. Quinn has spent most of her time knowing Santana trying to avoid her, dancing around and dodging her in school, because Santana is known as a _bitch_ to almost everyone. Quinn was just a nobody, is still a nobody; but she loves Santana, even though she has no right or reason to.

How did things change so quickly? When did her life get so messed up?

Santana stirs, making sleepy murmuring noises. Quinn snugs closer to her, hoping to hold onto the last fleeting moments before Santana wakes up. Quinn wishes, futilely, that she could pause this moment, store it somewhere safe.

"Quinn," Santana's voice is scratchy and hoarse. "What time is it? Why are you awake?"

"Shh, go back to sleep," Quinn whispers.

Santana shifts, looks up to Quinn. Her eyes are barely open. "Go to sleep, too."

"Yes," Quinn replies. She shifts her face until she's level with Santana, and then presses their lips together. Santana stirs, her limbs sliding out slowly, and she pulls Quinn even closer. Their tongues meet, and Quinn doesn't even mind that they both taste like sleep; this time, the fire is there, and it fills her up, shooting from her navel to her fingertips. They kiss like that, with their eyes swollen shut, until neither of them can breathe.

When Santana reaches, reaches, and pulls Quinn closer, her hand sliding down and between them, Quinn doesn't stop her.

Instead, when Santana slips into her, she says, "Oh," as if she has been asking a question all her life and never even knew it – and Santana, somehow, provides the answer, and it's so obvious, like Quinn should have known it all along.

* * *

It takes her months, but when Quinn finally works up the courage to tell Santana for a second time, "I love you," it's to her face, and Santana is awake.

Santana looks at her with curious eyes, and silence hangs between them for (what feels like to Quinn) the longest moment of her life. Finally, Santana smiles, a full-cheeked smile, the kind that brings her dimples out, and Quinn's heart almost stops when she replies with, "I love you, too."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, guys. There will be a total of 7 oneshots that are completely unrelated that I'll be publishing beneath this title. I figured it was better than publishing seven different ones. If you want to leave a review, please do so for the corresponding day, so I'll know what the feedback is on. If you follow me on tumblr, we can talk about this and the rest of my fanfiction as well.

I hope everybody likes it! Happy Quinntana week!


	2. Day 02: Serial Killers

Day 02: Serial Killers

_out of focus, eye to eye, 'til the gravity's too much_

The first time was a mistake.

Santana got a call from Quinn at three in the morning, and it was mostly incoherent. Santana didn't know what else to do except drive over and try to see what the damage was – and, well, the damage was pretty bad.

Santana was struck, first, by the smell: thick, cloying, and coppery. She knew, then, when her stomach rolled – she knew someone was dead. She picked quietly over the carpet, eyes wide, trying not to make a sound. She was worried for Quinn. It didn't strike her as odd that that would be her first reaction, not until many weeks later.

"Quinn?"

She heard the sound of sobbing coming from the kitchen, so Santana tip-toed in that direction. It struck her, violently – the sight of blood, _everywhere_. She fought back the way her stomach wanted to heave, pressing her lips together tightly, clenching her jaw. It was still fresh, a brilliant red staining the white ceramic tile. Santana's eyes skittered over the body on the floor – she didn't even stop to look at it. Instead, she focused on the curled up heap of Quinn in the corner, several paces away. Santana sprinted over to her, her hands immediately going for Quinn's shoulders, her chest, her arms and hips. She needed to make sure none of the blood was Quinn's. Quinn's body had always seemed so strong and powerful to Santana, in the past; but now, huddled, she seemed small and frail, so fragile. Her skin had an ashen quality to it, sweat-slick and pale.

"Quinn," Santana said, urgently. "Quinn, listen to me, calm down."

Quinn's chest was heaving with the force of her sobs, and Santana could tell she was only a few moments away from hyperventilating. So – she did the only thing that she knew how to do. She held Quinn, tight, pushing Quinn's face against her shoulder, and started rocking.

"It's okay." She stroked Quinn's hair. "It's okay, Quinn."

Quinn's tears immediately soaked Santana's shirt. "I killed him," She whispered, and it made Santana's heart go cold.

"What happened?"

Quinn shook her head, pushing her face even harder into Santana's shoulder. "I stabbed him."

Santana nods. "We have to call the police."

Quinn choked on a sob.

"Shh, it'll be okay," Santana tightened her grip on Quinn.

"I'm not going to jail, Santana." Quinn voice was quiet but steady. "I won't."

Santana's body felt numb.

"What are you saying, Q?"

Quinn snuffled loudly against Santana, twisting her face until it was pressed into the cup of Santana's neck. "Don't call the police. I'm going to leave."

"What?" Santana was alarmed. She pulled back, tried to bring Quinn's face level with hers. "Leave? Go where?"

"I don't know, Santana. I'll disappear."

Santana let out a short, cynical laugh. "No. No way, Quinn. You wouldn't last a day."

Quinn swallows, and she looks tragically beautiful, even now, with her face swollen and tears staining her skin. "My mom won't be back for a week. No one will know I'm gone. It'll give me a head start. No one – no one will know he's dead."

Santana stopped, sat back on her heels. She looked Quinn over – really looked. Tried to see if there was some way to spot insanity, if it was something that left a physical mark. What she saw was just Quinn, the same old Quinn that she's known for years. A scared, desperate, terrified Quinn, but – still just Quinn.

"I'll know, Quinn."

Santana watched Quinn's face darken for an instant, and then a kind of hopeless slide into her eyes.

"I shouldn't have called you." Quinn said it quietly, distantly. "It was a bad idea. I just wanted – I wanted to say goodbye." Quinn shook her head. "Stupid."

Santana bit her lip, looking first to Quinn's hands, then back to her face. "I think I know what we can do."

"We?" Quinn's voice cracked.

"Yes," Santana sighed. Her heart was kicking wildly in her chest, a frantic fluttering, and adrenaline – which had been raging since Quinn woke her up thirty minutes before, sobbing – surged through her veins. "How much money do you have, Quinn?"

Quinn shrugged, slowly. "As much as we need."

"Do you have a passport?"

Quinn nodded sluggishly, and the light came back into her eyes, along with the smallest smile.

Santana mirrored Quinn's nod, and stood up. She helped Quinn up, too, and held her tightly around her shoulders as they both made their way out of the kitchen, delicately stepping over pools of congealed blood. It still stank, and made Santana's stomach clench. Quinn trembled in her arms, and Santana held her even tighter.

"Take your clothes off," Santana said, once they reached the edge of the kitchen. Quinn looked at her, curiously, and Santana shrugged. She stripped out of her flannel pajama bottoms, and reluctantly, Quinn did the same. Santana found a trash bag and shoved their clothes in it. Quinn stood, in a bra and panties, and watched as Santana used a kitchen cloth to wipe down the surfaces that she touched, and all the ones Quinn might have.

"Where's the knife?" Santana asked, breathing through her mouth to prevent herself from vomiting.

"Um—" Quinn's voice broke. "On the floor. By his – uh. His head."

Santana gave her a look that was disbelieving, but then she picked back towards the corpse. She used two fingers to pluck the knife and shove it deep in the trash bag. Santana wiped down the floor where Quinn had huddled, wiped down drawer pulls, cabinet handles, the sink spigot.

She knew she was being haphazard at best, but she figured it couldn't hurt.

"Let's go put some clothes on, Q. You need to pack."

Quinn was almost docile, allowing Santana to lead her up the stairs to her own room. They both got dressed in Quinn's pajamas, and Santana watched as Quinn packed a week's worth of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, a toothbrush. She hesitated, but then went ahead and packed her makeup bag. It was a small gesture, but it made Santana smile.

"Let's go," Santana said, taking her hand.

It wasn't until they had made a trip to Santana's house, stealing through the night and packing a similar bag for her, that Quinn thought to ask where exactly they were going.

"We're going to Mexico, Quinn." Santana told her. Santana's parents were still sleeping, and would be for hours to come. "I left my parents a note. I'll call them in a few hours."

"What are we going to do in Mexico, Santana?" Santana could tell Quinn was starting to panic, because she had that wild look in her eye.

"Everything is going to be fine. I have family in Mexico. There won't be any trouble. By the time they figure out he's dead, we'll already be there."

Quinn nodded, reluctantly. "I don't want – Santana. I don't want you to be in any trouble." She let out a strangled breath, tears creeping into the corners of her eyes. "I did this. You don't have to—"

"Hey, it's all right." Santana shrugged. "Just clean out your trust fund, Quinn, and we'll be fine. Have you ever _been_ to Mexico?"

Quinn shook her head.

Santana smiled, then, and for the first time since this whole crazy night began, she felt a bit like her old self.

"You're in for a treat."

* * *

That was two very busy days ago, and Santana never stopped feeling anxiety, even though she knew they were safe. Quinn had been able to fake it with her mother, keeping her happy and oblivious through a series of telephone calls and text messages. Nobody had even been alarmed when Quinn took out several thousand dollars from her trust fund, and then transferred the rest of the money over to Maribel Lopez's account. Quinn had been a little startled, at first, that Santana involved her parents, but Santana knew there was no other way to make this work.

"My mom will get us the rest of the money once we're there," Santana tells her, sitting in the airport in Houston. They have a connecting flight to Acapulco, where her aunt Graciela will pick them up. Santana is actually kind of excited to see Graciela and her cousins and the babies. It's been a few years since her family made it down that way.

Santana is determinedly not thinking about the things she left in Lima, or how soon it will be before she'll see her mother again. She isn't thinking about anything else, really, than landing safe in Mexico and figuring it out from there.

Santana doesn't have a plan, exactly, except that she knows she's going to be drunk on the beach – after a very long nap and a long, hot shower – in approximately eighteen hours.

* * *

Santana's family makes fun of her accent, and her Spanish is rusty and horrible, but they're family and they love her and, in some ways, living in Acapulco is like sliding a hand into a glove for Santana. She always thought she was better suited to the beautiful climate and the beaches, and since Acapulco is a tourist city, she doesn't lack the amenities of the States. She misses her mother and father, but – they Skype every so often, and send her money, and say that they'll visit for Christmas. Mexico is not the worst place in the world to live in exile, if you're Santana Lopez.

Quinn, on the other hand, has had a harder time adjusting. In the last five months, she's made a valiant attempt to learn Spanish – and, well, she can say basic things, like _where is the bathroom?_ and _thank you very much._ Dora the Explorer probably taught Quinn that much. But she doesn't have a natural aptitude for learning languages (_finally,_ something Quinn isn't good at), and it's tough for her. She's become withdrawn. She spends a lot of time reading, or on the internet, holed up in the guest house that Tia Graciela gave over to them to use. It's really not as luxurious as all that; it's one open room, with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom. Quinn spends a lot of time in the hammock hanging off the side of the structure, a book curled in her lap.

For all her malaise, living in Mexico has been good to Quinn, at least physically. Her skin is several shades darker than Santana has ever seen it, and her hair takes on a perpetually honeyed hue, lifting with exposure to sunlight. She likes the way the sea air makes Quinn smell, and – Santana has to admit it – Quinn is stunning in the tropical clothes that best suit this atmosphere.

Santana has always been attracted to Quinn, in varying degrees, since she met her when they were gangly fourteen-year-olds, but now – both of them tipping over the age of twenty-two, with eight years' worth of tears and slaps between them – it seems to have taken on a life of its own, and Santana can't control it. Living with Quinn is easier to do than Santana imagined it would be, though she suspects it has more to do with the fact that Quinn is listless and morose than with the fact that they're actually compatible roommates. They sleep in the same bed (a plush queen –sized pull out), and sometimes Santana wakes up long before Quinn does. She always watches the way the morning light plays over Quinn's face, casting dappled shadows; she watches how dreams leave their wrinkly footprints all over Quinn's forehead. Sometimes, Santana's overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her awake, and then continue kissing her until every one of her senses is steeped in Quinn – and that always results in the long, liquid tug down the center of her body, which makes Santana restless and, somehow, sad.

She isn't the type of person to tiptoe around sexual tension. If anything, Santana has always taken the bull by the horns when it comes to her own hormones. But – there's something wistfully tragic about Quinn, lately; something so gorgeous and broken that Santana can't bring herself to push. She wants Quinn, in the visceral, primal way that has everything to do with Quinn's breathtaking beauty and her own sexual appetite. But she also wants Quinn in the kind of soft, painful, longing way that has everything to do with wanting to make her laugh and feel loved, and banish the sadness that hangs around Quinn like a cloud.

Santana would be worried about these feelings, if they were for anyone else. But Quinn is – well, she's _Quinn,_ and it doesn't make her feel anxious or panicky when she thinks about loving Quinn that way. It's more like a natural extension of the way Santana already loves Quinn; the way she's always loved her.

Santana runs a hand down the length of Quinn's hair, which is shaggy, now, past her shoulders, before she slides into the hammock, snugging their bodies close together. Wordlessly, Quinn shifts, making space for Santana without having to be asked. Santana's legs tangle with Quinn's, and she slides until her head rests comfortably on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn holds a novel in her hands, and doesn't look away from it, but Santana swears she can see the faint beginnings of a smile on her lips.

Santana lies still, and the midday heat makes her drowsy; she feels herself slipping into a daze while Quinn reads, lulled by the sound of Quinn's breathing.

Quinn's fingers play idly with the weight of Santana's hair, occasionally brushing along her scalp. It relaxes Santana even further, and she feels her eyelids getting heavy.

It takes Quinn an hour or so, but eventually she folds the book closed, and shifts until her face is pressed against Santana's hair. Santana stirs, turning into Quinn, and Quinn closes an arm around Santana's body.

"Our visas expire next month," Quinn whispers.

Santana lets out a sleepy hum. "My tio says he knows some people who can get us residential visas without us having to return to the States. It's not a problem."

Quinn lets out a quiet breath. "Maybe we could go back?"

Santana shifts, tilts her face. Her eyes are still sleepy and dry, but she can tell that Quinn has closed herself off. She's looking into the distance and biting her bottom lip.

"We can't go back, Quinn."

Quinn closes her eyes. "I haven't been charged with anything yet."

Santana sighs. "But you will be. Eventually. When the Lima police get off their asses. He dies, and you disappear? They'll put the two together."

"What's the statute of limitations?"

"On _murder?_ Quinn, I don't know. It's definitely not six months." Santana shifts, pulling herself away from Quinn. Her easy warmth is gone, replaced now by the irritation of having this conversation _again_ with Quinn. "It may be never. We're in for the long haul, here, princess."

Quinn doesn't move, exactly; but just the same, Santana can see the way she deflates and folds into herself. It makes Santana's heart ache – she wants so badly to pull Quinn close and kiss the sadness from her. Santana bites her lip, and tugs Quinn's hand into her lap. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I really am."

Quinn nods, and doesn't say anything at first. Santana plays with the knuckles of her hand, rubbing them between her fingers. She waits for Quinn to be ready to talk – just as she's been waiting, all along, for Quinn to be ready.

"I was so close, you know?" Quinn says, her voice small. "It was only a year until I would have been ready for law school. It wouldn't have been very long before –" Quinn's throat closes, and she pauses for a moment. Santana squeezes her hand. "I would have been free of him eventually. If I had been more patient. If I had just – dealt with it, a little longer. I would have been free." Quinn closes her eyes. "Now I never will be."

Santana is motionless, waiting to see if there is more; she likes to let Quinn completely exhale before she starts giving her things to inhale.

"I get that you're sad, Q, I do. I know you miss your mom and your friends and your life in New Haven." Santana swallows. "But as far as prisons go – Quinn, this is the best kind of incarceration."

Quinn closes her eyes against Santana's words, letting them wash over her. Santana just looks at her, and waits.

"I hate hiding. I was going to be somebody, Santana. I really was. I would have done it right." She slides her head against the cup of the hammock, letting the sun warm her face. "I messed up so much of my life, before. I wanted to do something right."

Santana's heart throbs for Quinn. She moves, and presses a kiss to the corner of Quinn's forehead.

"It'll get better." She hesitates, but she knows she has to say it – "You have to forget that life, and those dreams, Quinn. This is the reality."

Quinn just shakes her head.

Santana looks upwards, studies the weathered boards of the porch overhang. "If you want to get into a university here, I'm sure – I'm sure we could get you a new identity. I'm sure we could find a way. You could still be a lawyer, Quinn, or.. anything. There's still time."

Quinn gives Santana the smallest of smiles. "Thanks for trying to cheer me up."

Santana nods, thoughtfully. "Do you know what we need?"

Quinn regards her. "What's that?"

"Tequila."

* * *

Santana likes it when Quinn drinks – even when it makes her mean. Santana thinks that Quinn, drunk on tequila, is a lot like tequila itself; acidic, burning, bitter. They both have the same effect on Santana: they make her loose, and warm, and wild with want. Santana loves the hot rush of liquor sliding past her lips and down her throat, scalding her insides. She also loves the way Quinn's eyes glitter, the angry cast of her face; the snarl on her lips. They both make Santana's stomach clench and tighten, and her whole body thrums, pulsating in an incessant, building rhythm.

Tonight, Quinn doesn't shy away from matching Santana shot-for-shot, and the challenge in Quinn's spackled eyes just makes the blood pound in Santana's ears. They sit on a piece of driftwood on the beach, surrounded by a score or more other young, reckless, hot people dancing and grinding and kissing. Music blares from speakers in the distance, and someone has a bonfire lit; it casts dancing shadows on the sand.

Quinn is the one who changes the tone of things between them. She grasps at Santana's hand, pulls it to her mouth – Santana's heart nearly stops in her chest when Quinn locks eyes with her, and then runs her tongue over the soft inside of her wrist. Santana remains still, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, while Quinn pours a handful of lime salt onto Santana's wrist. She has to swallow, because her mouth has gone dry, when Quinn licks the salt away from Santana's wrist and then pulls a swig of tequila from the bottle. Santana stares, hard, at Quinn's hand when she offers the salt shaker to Santana.

Santana takes it, and then scoots closer to Quinn, and uses her left hand to push Quinn's hair over her shoulder. She leans in, carefully, and then draws the length of her tongue over the divot in Quinn's collarbone; she feels a rush of excitement at Quinn's sharp intake of breath. Santana sprinkles the salt delicately over Quinn's skin, and then takes her time licking it away before she pulls back, and tugs the bottle out of Quinn's fist. Santana keeps her eyes glued to Quinn as she washes down the alcohol, and – somehow – she knows that tonight will end differently than the countless other nights she and Quinn have spent drinking on the beach.

She thinks that she might be done waiting for Quinn.

Quinn moves in, next, and takes Santana's jaw in her fingertips. Santana tries to control her breathing when Quinn's face draws near, but her heart starts jackhammering in her chest. Quinn's breath on her neck makes goosebumps break out on Santana's skin, and she curls her fingers into tight fists, trying to control the way her body wants to melt into Quinn. Quinn hovers her face a whisper from Santana, and just when she thinks the waiting will kill her, Quinn presses first with her lips to the skin of Santana's neck, directly below her jaw. Santana shudders when Quinn's tongue slicks out, hot and wet, and slides down the line of Santana's neck to end at her shoulder. Santana wants to buck and moan, but instead she trembles and holds her breath. Quinn pours the salt on Santana's skin, and Santana braces herself for the second time – but this time, she can't stop herself from moaning, because Quinn fuses her mouth to the place where Santana's neck meets her shoulder and she sucks, hard.

Santana is almost panting when Quinn pulls away, and she can see the fight in Quinn's eyes – the exaltation, the triumph. She grins openly at Santana as she sips tequila. Santana's entire body throbs, and she only grunts when she slides away from the driftwood to pull Quinn down onto the sand.

Quinn is smiling and breathless when Santana settles on top of her, her legs bracketing Quinn's hips. She doesn't hesitate to press her lips to the space beneath Quinn's ear, and she can't help the way her pelvis grinds downward into Quinn when Quinn sucks in a breath and presses her nails sharply into Santana's shoulder. Slowly, painstakingly, she drags her tongue down the curve of Quinn's neck, and then to the soft, pliant skin just above Quinn's breasts. She fumbles for the salt shaker, but Quinn stops her by grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging Santana's face parallel with Quinn's. They pant, staring at each other for one fierce, brutal moment, before Quinn crashes their mouths together. Immediately, the kiss is full of fire and passion, all teeth and battling tongues. Santana gasps and grunts, and Quinn claws at her, trying to pull her as close as she possibly can.

Santana's body rocks into Quinn, and Quinn responds by arching upwards into her. Santana moans, the sound vibrating against Quinn's mouth. Quinn tastes like lime salt and tequila, and something else – something intrinsically her, and it's everything Santana ever dreamed it would be; it's altogether dark, and powerful, and full of life. Quinn scrapes her teeth along the flesh of Santana's bottom lip, and Santana whines, low in her throat, at the ache it creates between her legs.

Santana becomes aware that they're making out like animals in the sand, in full sight of every other beach occupant, when she hears hooting and whistling in the distance. She doesn't want to stop, because the sensation of being on top of Quinn is sort of the same dangerous, tingling feeling she has while riding a rollercoaster – but Quinn draws back, and blinks up at her, so Santana makes herself pull away.

She doesn't stop to ask; instead she merely rolls away from Quinn, into a standing position, and she doesn't bother to dust the sand off. She reaches for Quinn, who lifts herself up, and as soon as they're upright, Santana begins jogging towards their cabin, their linked fingers dragging Quinn behind her.

They barrel through the door and Quinn's laugh rings out, strained and airy, when Santana rounds on her, using their momentum to fling the door closed. Their bodies collide with it in a rapid staccato, Quinn's back connecting solidly against the door, and Santana's with Quinn. They're kissing, again, blindly, and Santana almost growls at the way Quinn pulls at her clothing, trying to rip it from her body.

Quinn has brought out a desperate hunger in Santana, and Santana realizes it's a hunger she's been living with for most of her life – she's always ached for Quinn, to have Quinn this way, all ravenous heat. Her lips feel swollen and bruised, and she knows that the places where Quinn's fingers find her skin will bear marks the next day. She doesn't care. She breaks away to suck the flesh of Quinn's neck into her mouth; she's rewarded with Quinn moaning and arching into her, gripping her almost painfully on the shoulders.

"Santana," Quinn whispers, she says it like a mantra, over and over again. Santana's body tightens urgently at the sound of her name on Quinn's lips – she breaks away from Quinn with a groan, and then she drops to her knees.

Quinn is panting, and she lets out a grateful breath when Santana drags her shorts and underwear down and then off. Quinn's hips move, and she grunts, slapping her hands against the door, when Santana yanks one of Quinn's legs over her shoulder. Santana doesn't wait, or hesitate, or tease; instead she pushes her tongue as deep inside Quinn as she can, fusing her mouth to the slick, wet center of her.

Quinn bites hard on her lip, moving her pelvis in time with Santana, and Santana's fingers dig into Quinn's thigh. Quinn tugs at Santana's hair, impatient, pulling her mouth upwards, and Santana gives in to Quinn's wishes by rolling Quinn's clit beneath her tongue. Immediately, she sinks two fingers into Quinn, pumping hard. Quinn's body bucks and writhes, thudding against the door. She rides Santana's fingers shamelessly, and Santana moans at the sensation of Quinn squeezing tightly around her. She sucks Quinn's clit into her mouth, and it only takes a moment before Quinn freezes, and then arches sharply, her spine forming a perfect bow. Santana can't help the way she moans with Quinn's clit in her mouth, and Quinn's body quakes, shuddering hard around Santana's fingers. It seems to last half a lifetime; a trembling, clenching heartbeat that leaves them both breathless and gasping.

Santana climbs to her feet, but she doesn't have a moment to steady herself before Quinn pulls her into a kiss, her tongue slipping out to lick first over her lips and then into her mouth. Santana's lungs strangle on air, because her body feels like a volcano on the brink of eruption; she doesn't think she's ever felt so desperate.

Quinn flips them, pushing Santana against the door, hard, and Santana cups the back of Quinn's neck to give herself something to hold onto. Quinn doesn't hesitate to slide a hand down Santana's abdomen, and then into Santana's underwear. Santana moans, her hips jerking forward, when Quinn's fingers slip against her. She knows she's wet – she can feel it, thick and hot, collecting between her thighs. She whines, wriggling her hips, because Quinn's strokes are gentle and tentative and Santana doesn't have the _patience,_ she wants Quinn _now,_ so she digs her teeth into Quinn's neck and tugs at her, viciously, until Quinn finally slides her fingers in.

Santana gasps, and her body trembles and quakes with the rhythm that Quinn starts up, a fast, brutal pace. The sounds between them are sharp, slick, and wet; Santana grunts and moans, her body twisting and pushing and pulling against Quinn in a desperate, erratic frenzy. Quinn breathes against her ear, and then slides her tongue out, tracing the edge of it – Santana bucks when Quinn draws her earlobe into her mouth and sucks.

"Fuck," Santana's voice is hoarse. She feels like her body is on fire, and the heat begins and ends with Quinn. "Fuck me, Quinn."

Quinn's teeth scrape along the curve of Santana's neck, and then her tongue soothes the spot. Santana writhes, and it only takes a few more sharp, brutal thrusts of the heel of Quinn's hand against her clit to send her over – everything inside of her clenches, strangling, until it ends in a wave of sound and movement. She clings to Quinn while her body shakes and quakes, her heart drumming in her ribcage. When it's over, she gasps for breath, trying to slow her rapid pulse. Quinn holds her, pressing soft, hot kisses to her neck and chin and cheeks.

* * *

They spend the next week wrapped up in white linen sheets, and each other. Santana comes to learn all the contours of Quinn's body, from the soft, secret creases between her fingers to the dimples in her back. Santana learns all the flavors of Quinn, from the early morning bitterness to wine-soaked aftertaste, and everything in between. She learns what each of her different sighs mean, and the way she whispers in her sleep.

After a week of learning and absorbing everything about Quinn that Santana has always wanted to know, she murmurs the words _I love you_ into the cusp of Quinn's neck.

Quinn surprises her by kissing her, hard, and then repeating it back to her, word for word.

Santana smiles, and Quinn mirrors it; it looks like daybreak, the sun coming over the hills.

"Say it again," She whispers.

"I love you." Quinn runs the palm of her hand down Santana's cheek, brushing her thumb against Santana's dimple. "I love you, Santana."

* * *

The second time, it was not a mistake.

The second time, Santana comes back from a trip downtown with her aunt and cousins, her arms full of groceries. She doesn't notice anything is amiss – not at first. She moves to put the bags on the little counter in the kitchen, and she's humming as she does it.

Then a sound, some kind of rustle in the stillness, alerts her. She hears a soft _whoosh,_ a sigh, a creaking floorboard. She spins, looking around the room, and sees no one; she tilts her head, listening. She hears it again – this time with a muffled thump. Her heart pounds painfully in her chest, and she dashes around the kitchen island. She takes less than a second to pick up the heavy, cast iron metal poker that leans against the doorjamb; she grabs it and sprints outside, around the corner of the porch, towards Quinn's hammock.

Santana takes it in in an instant; the black mop of hair, the torn white t-shirt, the glint of his gold wristwatch. She sees Quinn, pressed against the side of the house, with the man's hand over her mouth. Quinn's eyes are wide and terrified – Santana has no time to think, or react.

She barrels forward and draws the iron poker over her shoulder, bringing down with as much strength as she can manage. It connects with a sick, wet _thump_ with the man's skull, spraying blood and bone and brain in a wide arc. Quinn screams, then clutches at her own mouth to silence herself. Santana doesn't stop, though the man fell down instantly in a weightless heap; she yanks the poker back, and then brings it down again, and again, until his face is a mushy, pulverized mess.

"It's enough," Quinn chokes, her voice thick with tears. "Enough. Santana."

She hears her name, dimly, and it makes her pause; she realizes that she's covered in blood, and the muscles in her arms burn. She's heaving out breaths, thick, painful ones, and she wants to scream because she's so angry and terrified all at once. The metal weight falls away from her, crashing to the ground, and she turns to Quinn, her eyes wide and worried.

"I'm fine," Quinn says, but her voice trembles. "Santana, the blood—"

"I don't care." Santana pulls Quinn close to her, holding on as tightly as she can; her arms are weak and wobbly, and her hands are numb, but she squeezes Quinn with all of her strength.

No, the second time was not a mistake.

Santana would do it again, a hundred times. A thousand.


	3. Day 03: Body Swap

Day 03: Body Swap

_all we are is skin and bones, trained to get along_

Quinn has seen _Freaky Friday._ She knows how these things work, at least in theory. Still, it's something of a shock when she rolls out of her bed one morning and – well, she can _roll,_ and that's something altogether new, at least for the past four months or so. She notices, first, that she can see her feet – _that's weird_ is her brain's foggy reaction. She blinks down at the coral pink nail polish, trying to remember where she would have gotten that color from. She usually paints her toenails red.

Then, well, she notices that the feet are peculiar shade of tan, and she starts to realize there's something very wrong.

She hurries to the mirror hanging above her chest of drawers, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. It startles her just as much to see the figure in the reflection do the same thing in tandem – though she knows that's how mirrors operate.

Her heart is racing in her chest, and it almost hurts; she feels a sharp pain radiating from her chest and moving down her arm. Her first instinct is to clutch at her abdomen, worried that the stress hormones or anxiety or the freakin' heart attack she's having will badly affect the baby – but when her palms meet a very toned, very flat stomach, it somehow becomes all the more real to her.

She's _Santana._

Santana _Lopez_.

She hears Mercedes' mom hollering at her to come down for breakfast, and her eyes go wide. She can't face the Joneses like this – they wouldn't believe her, anyway. She's wearing baggy maternity pajamas, and even as she pulls the drawstrings tight on the pants, they hardly stay on Santana's bony hipbones. She knows she won't have any clothes here that will fit – all of her pre-pregnancy clothes are still at her mother's house – and she runs a hand through her hair, tugging at it. Even _that_ is weird, because it's a thickness and texture she isn't used to.

"Come on down, now!"

That's Mrs. Jones. Quinn breaks out in a cold sweat at the prospect of facing Mercedes' family. She winces, her palm sliding against the doorknob, and she slowly creaks the door open. She almost yelps in surprise when she sees – well, herself – barreling towards the door at a quick sprint. She darts out of the doorway and Quinn – Santana? – slips through, her breath hitching.

Quinn closes the door and feels her heart thundering in her chest. It's completely surreal and unbelievable to be looking at herself like that – she's taller than she realized – and her hair's a wild mess. Her body is squeezed into a pair of baggy sweatpants and a ragged white t-shirt, which is probably something Santana borrowed from her dad. Quinn's body breathes heavily and rests against the wall, her face towards the ceiling.

Quinn tries to think of something to say, but everything she can possibly think of is so absurd.

"Hi," She says, finally.

"Yeah." It's a shock to hear her own voice, so uncharacteristically low and biting, coming from her own body – but yet, not her own. She sounds awfully nasally to herself, and she realizes – this is how Santana sounds to herself, all of the time.

"What _the fuck_ is going on?" Santana hisses. "You _are_ Quinn, right?"

"Yeah." Quinn nods. She can't stop looking at herself, at every detail – from her messy mop of hair to her swollen belly, down to the bare feet. She wants to put her hands – Santana's hands?- on her belly to feel her baby move and kick.

"I called Britt, and she's Mercedes. It's some huge giant mindfuck and I don't know what's going on."

"Wait – Brittany's _here?"_

"I guess. I called Brittany's cell phone, and.. well, it was Mercedes."

"Oh, my God." Quinn feels her eyebrows sliding upwards on her forehead. "This is insane."

"Yeah!" Santana wipes at her forehead, and Quinn can see that she's sweaty and winded.

"Here, sit down." Quinn guides her over to her bed, and makes her rest. "How is the baby?"

"Tch," Santana makes a disgusted face. "I feel like a giant fucking cow, Quinn. This thing is at least forty pounds. You're carrying a baby whale."

Quinn scowls darkly at Santana, but she still presses her hands to Santana's stomach. Santana glares at her, annoyed, but Quinn pushes in until she feels the baby kick back. It sends a huge shock of relief through her. "Thank God."

"Ouch! Don't make it do that, Christ!" Santana yanks away from Quinn.

"It's a _her._ And you need to take it easy. You have high blood pressure."

"Yeah? No fucking kidding. I thought I was going to die climbing up the stairs."

"You have to go slow." Quinn's brow creases with worry. "How did you get here so fast?"

"I woke up like an hour ago because your brat was kicking my bladder. I almost pissed myself when I realized what was going on."

"I bet." Quinn gnaws on her bottom lip. "What did Mrs. Jones say?"

"She thought I was taking a walk around the block or something. I told her – uh, I told her I was here, just to avoid the confusion. She thinks you got here before she woke up."

"Uh huh." Quinn rubs at her forehead. "That was actually very clever of you, Santana."

Santana huffs, narrowing her eyes. "Don't press my buttons today, Q. I have all these crazy baby hormones going on inside of me. I don't even know what I might be capable of."

Quinn snorts. She realizes that a very pregnant Santana_ is_ actually a dangerous thing – she knows that, some days, it's all she can do to stop from throttling everyone with a frying pan; and other days, she hides herself away in a bathroom and cries. Santana is already a volatile, emotional mess; Quinn can't imagine how this is going to go for her, now.

"Did you bring clothes?" Quinn asks.

Santana scowls. "No, I didn't think to pick you up a wardrobe on the way here. I just –" Santana tugs at her own hair, almost sharply. "You didn't like buy some cursed earrings from a Jamaican voodoo shop, did you?"

Quinn wrinkles her brow. "What are you talking about?"

Santana scoffs, launching herself upwards. "Come on, you've never seen the Hot Chick?"

Quinn shakes her head.

Santana rolls her eyes. "You are _so_ socially challenged."

"That isn't the point," Quinn can feel herself getting irritated. "You said Brittany and Mercedes changed places – who else did? What is going on?"

"This is body swapping in the extreme." Santana agrees. "I'm going to get dressed. I'll ask Brittany to bring her spare Cheerios outfit for you to school."

Quinn glares at Santana. "You actually think we should go to school like this?"

"What choice do we have, Quinn?" Santana is already rummaging through Quinn's closet, wrinkling her nose at every maternity shirt she sees. "We need to try to figure out how to fix this."

* * *

It was easier to play off the presence of Brittany – with Mercedes in her head – than it was to explain the general absence of Mercedes to the Jones family. It was just lucky for them that Mercedes' parents are busy – and her mother left without too much questioning. Mercedes looked almost comically pained to watch her mother leave, which was somewhat tragic to see on Brittany's face.

"I am on fire thinking about what that girl is doing with my body," Mercedes says on the ride to school. She's dressed, comically, in something she would typically wear – but it looks almost clownish on Brittany's frame.

Santana can't stop staring at her, and it makes Quinn uneasy.

"This is all very strange," Quinn says. She's driving the three of them in Santana's car.

"You're telling me," Mercedes snaps. "This is some devil worship stuff right here."

Quinn can tell Santana is more mesmerized by Mercedes speaking out of Brittany's mouth than she is by the fact that she's wearing Quinn's body.

The trip to school is short, thankfully, and they meet up with Brittany in the Cheerios locker room. Quinn doesn't think twice about zipping up the uniform – it's still second nature to her – but she catches the way Santana is watching her, almost mournfully. Brittany has to help Mercedes into it, which is, in itself, a kind of a comedy. Santana helps Brittany into Mercedes' clothes, too, and Mercedes adjusts the necklaces and earrings to her liking.

"This is too weird." Mercedes says finally. "Like looking at a mirror, but.. worse."

"Yeah." Brittany grins, reaches out to touch Mercedes' – her own? – hair. "It's kind of like invasion of the body snatchers."

"Sort of." Santana says.

"We have to come up with a plan." Quinn faces the other three. "We don't know how many people this has affected, or for how long. I think we should stick together and try to help each other."

"I agree." Mercedes says, shaking her head. She snatches Brittany's arm in hers and pulls her close.

"Wait," Santana frowns. "Shouldn't we try to look as normal as possible? Like – shouldn't Quinn and Mercedes stick together, and me and Britt?"

"No." Mercedes shakes her head quickly. "No, no. I'm not letting this girl go off with you – with _my_ body – to just do whatever she likes!"

If this were a different situation, Quinn would laugh at the expression of shock on Santana's (her own) face. It is weird to hear Brittany speak with such assertion in her voice, but – she has to agree.

"Yes, I think we should stick with.. each other. To make sure the other person behaves in a normal manner."

Santana rolls her eyes. "I know how to act like you, Quinn."

Quinn's eyebrows raise.

Santana puts on a mocking tone – ironic, since she doesn't need to mimic Quinn's voice, as she is actually using Quinn's voice – "I'm Quinn Fabray, captain of the celibacy club, but oh look, I'm pregnant! I cheated on my Neanderthal boyfriend and got knocked up by a Jew! My daddy is so mad he sent me packing and now I'm all mopey and whiny but still somehow superior to everyone else."

Quinn feels anger gather in her sternum, but she swallows it down. "Very cute, Santana."

"Oh, let me!" Brittany says, grinning. "I'm Santana and I like to make out with other people's boyfriends." She looks between Mercedes, Quinn, and Santana. "Did I win?"

Mercedes stares at her. "No."

"Be nice," Santana hisses.

Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm not gonna let this girl walk around saying crap like that with no explanation. I don't want people to think that_ I'm_ insane, too."

"Fine." Santana mutters, crossing her arms.

Quinn rolls her eyes, but she stays put as Brittany and Mercedes move out of the locker room, arm in arm. Santana watches them go with a worried expression.

"They're going to be okay."

Santana narrows her eyes at Quinn, and shakes her head. "Let's get out of here, blondie. We need to get to first period."

Xxxx

Quinn notices, first of all, that this whole body switch phenomenon only seems to affect the girls of McKinley. Her first indication is during her second period, when Puck sidles up to her and sits down in the desk beside her. Quinn glares at him from beneath her eyebrows – this is one of the classes she and Santana don't have together, so she was forced to come to an English class where she has no idea what the lesson is – and he stretches, casually, and places his arm around her.

"Ugh!" Quinn jerks away from him.

"Hey, now, babe, don't be like that," Puck says, an arched expression on his face.

"Gross. Go away, Puck."

"What's eatin' you?"

Quinn just stares at him. "Don't you have, like, a pregnant girlfriend around here somewhere?"

"Hey!" Puck puts his hands up defensively. "Quinn is not my girlfriend." He lowers his voice and edges in closer. "And besides – that didn't seem to bother you last weekend."

Quinn scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You're disgusting."

Puck grins. "You like it when I'm dirty."

"Oh my God!" Quinn shoves at his shoulder, hard. "What a jerk. Go away."

"Where's your sense of humor?" Puck scowls, rubbing the spot where Quinn shoved. "You been spending too much time with Quinn."

Xxx

"I had _no_ idea Puck still hits on you like that!" Quinn hisses, grabbing Santana's arm on the way to the cafeteria.

"Yeah, he's kind of an animal," Santana says, though her voice is oddly reserved. She follows Quinn docilely, and doesn't look up when they enter the cafeteria.

"Are you hungry?" Quinn asks, glancing at her. "You need to eat."

"No," Santana's voice trembles.

"Oh." Quinn stops, turns to her. "What's wrong?"

Santana pushes at her eyes, trying to stop the tears from shedding. "I'm just – everything is so _sad_, Quinn! In history we watched a documentary about kids in Africa, and – they're _starving!_"

Amused, Quinn steps back to watch Santana sniffle. "This is just hormones."

"I know," Santana's voice cracks. "And I'm such a loser to be crying like this but I can't help it!" She flings herself forward and clutches at Quinn's neck, pulling her close. "Make it stop."

"Shh." Awkwardly, Quinn pats Santana's back, wrapping an arm around her midsection. "It's okay, Santana. It's going to be okay."

"Turn it off." Santana sobs, pushing her face into Quinn's neck. "I hate everything."

"I know." Quinn rocks Santana gently. "You just gotta let it happen. It's better if you don't fight it."

"How do you do it?" Santana sniffs. "How do you go through the day like this?"

Quinn shrugs.

"Take me home. I don't want to be here anymore."

Quinn laughs. "I have perfect attendance. We can't skip the rest of the day."

Santana pulls back to glare at Quinn. "I don't care about your perfect attendance, Quinn! I just want to go home!"

"I know." Quinn holds Santana's face. "There's only a few more hours. It's going to be fine."

Santana lets out a wet breath. "How are we gonna fix this? I can't keep being you. I can't. It's too hard."

It makes Quinn's chest ache, slightly, to hear those words from Santana.

Santana seems to realize what she said, because her eyes soften. "I didn't mean it like that, Quinn—"

Quinn shakes her head. "Let's just get something to eat."

* * *

"I figured it out," Mercedes hisses, sitting down next to them in glee club after school. "I think Tina did it, so she could switch places with Rachel and be the star."

Quinn turns to stare at Rachel and Tina, who are uncharacteristically close. She snorts when she sees Finn try to cop a feel on Rachel's body, but Tina reaches over and smacks him on the shoulder. He turns around, perplexed, and Tina gives him a dirty look.

"L-leave Tina alone, Finn!" Rachel (Tina?) says, and her voice is strangely loud.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Keep your hands to yourself." Tina (Rachel?) narrows her eyes.

Finn turns around, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"I don't think we should assume Tina did it. Did what, anyway? How could Tina have done this?" Quinn turns to Mercedes.

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

The glee club rehearsal is a joke. Brittany, in the body of Mercedes, is suddenly tone deaf and flat – it causes Mr. Schue to stare at her with a perplexed expression – and Rachel, in the body of Tina, keeps singing all her own traditional solo parts. Mercedes tries to use Brittany's voice to hit the notes she would be able to do for herself, and Santana almost trips trying to do a dance move. All in all, the entire thing is disjointed chaos, and it Mr. Schue throws his hands up in disgust.

"I don't know what's gotten into you girls, but please, figure it out before tomorrow."

"I intend to," Mercedes mutters.

Mr. Schue looks at her strangely.

She ignores him, and grabs Tina's arm on the way out of the classroom. Tina yelps, which is kind of comical to see coming from Rachel Berry, and then all six of the girls march towards the bathroom.

"All right, Tina," Mercedes huffs, cornering her. "Tell us what's going on."

"I-I'm not T-Tina," Tina stutters.

Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb. I know it's you."

"Brittany—" Rachel begins.

Mercedes turns to glare at her. "This is Mercedes."

"Present." Brittany pipes up from the side.

Quinn watches Santana run her palm over Brittany's arm.

"We know you had something to do with this, girl Chang," Santana says.

"Wait." Rachel turns to look at them, her eyes wide. "Are _all_ of you switched?"

"Yes!" Mercedes hisses. "I think Tina did it, using ancient Chinese magic or something."

"That's incredibly rude!" Tina's mouth drops. "And _racist_! And not true!"

"You're not Chinese?" Brittany asks curiously.

"It – it was me," Rachel confesses.

Quinn's mouth drops. _"You?"_

"I just made a wish! That's all!" Rachel rushes to explain. "I didn't know it would turn out like this!"

"Great!" Santana spits. "Then unwish it and fix this, Berry!"

Rachel winces. "I think there has to be a shooting star or something."

Santana makes an angry noise, and Rachel hurries on – "It's not like I planned this, okay? I didn't know this would happen!"

"You have to fix it." Quinn says, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"It's not fair for you to take out your dysfunction on the rest of us." Santana sneers.

Rachel ducks her head. "I'll see what I can do, okay?"

Tina glances nervously between the girls. "Look, just back off Rachel. We _all_ need to start thinking of ways to resolve this."

"Easy for you to say," Santana mutters. "You don't weigh two hundred pounds with an alien fetus kicking your organs."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Stop being so hostile, Santana."

"That's like asking her not to breathe," Mercedes says.

"What exactly—"

"No," Quinn cuts in. "Calm down. You're going to upset the baby."

"The _baby,_" Santana mimics, scrunching up her face.

"I have Cheerios practice," Brittany says helpfully.

"Oh, hell no," Mercedes says.

Santana smirks. "Good luck with that, Wheezy."

"If I have to do it, then you do, too," Mercedes says, grabbing Quinn's arm. "Let's get out of here."

"This isn't over, dwarf!" Santana says over her shoulder. "If I'm not back to my normal self soon, I'm going to kill you!"

"Santana!" Tina shrieks. "You can't threaten her like that!"

"I can do whatever I want!" Santana snaps. "I'm pregnant, remember?"

"Oh my God," Quinn pulls at Santana, and Brittany comes up behind her, guiding her out.

* * *

Quinn decides it's smarter for her to bring Santana home with her, than to try to play it off without her in front of the Lopezes, or for Santana to try to do a convincing Quinn for the Joneses.

Santana's parents are visibly surprised by the presence of Quinn, though – they stare, with twin expressions of shock on their faces, when they both push through the door. Quinn feels awkward, because she knows that even if she isn't in her own body, that it's still her being judged.

"Hey, guys. Quinn is staying the night. Is that okay?"

Santana's dad turns to look at her, his eyebrows wrinkling.

Quickly, Santana grabs her elbow, and starts leading her up the stairs.

"What?" Quinn whispers hotly. She can't figure out where she went wrong with that.

"Don't _ask_ them," Santana mutters. "You _tell_ them."

"Santana." Quinn narrows her eyes. "You're telling me you don't –"

"Uh, no." Santana shakes her head. "You can't just start changing my behavior like that. They'll start to get _ideas._"

Quinn's laugh is short. "Unbelievable."

Santana doesn't say much, but she putters around her room with purpose. Quinn perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed and watches Santana. She finds it amusing to see some of her own little idiosyncrasies appear in Santana – well, _herself_ – like the way she presses a hand to the small of her back, to help support the weight of the baby. Still, there are certain other things that are obviously Santana, like the way her eyebrows furrow in a scowl.

"Take off the uniform," Santana orders, almost absently. "You'll wrinkle it."

Quinn sighs. "You don't need to remind me how to take care of it, Santana."

Santana rolls her eyes, but turns away when Quinn starts undressing. Quinn thinks this is probably the most hilarious thing ever – it's Santana's body, after all – and besides, they've seen each other naked dozens of times. "Why are you being so strange? This is you."

Santana turns and looks at her, a little uncomfortably. "It's just so weird – to see myself. It's been wigging me out all day. Sometimes I catch the way you pick at your eyebrow and think, _that's so Quinn,_ and how weird it is to see _me_ doing it. Then other times I see you do something that – well, it has to be my expression, doesn't it? But I've never seen it before. So.." Santana shrugs.

Quinn nods, a thoughtful look on her face. She quickly changes into a pair of Santana's pajamas. "But you know something? I'd figure you'd _want_ to look at yourself naked." Quinn grins at Santana's perplexed expression.

"Oh, shut up, Quinn." Santana rolls her eyes. "I was actually just thinking about how big my hips are. I need to go on a diet."

"Are you joking?" Quinn looks down at herself, tugging her pajama shirt tight, to show the outline of Santana's abdomen. "Your body is perfect, Santana."

"Easy for you to say." Santana says with a sigh. "Yours has taken on the mass of a small planet."

Quinn winces, even though it doesn't surprise her to hear Santana saying it. She turns, wordlessly, and begins digging around in her backpack, searching for a notebook.

"Oh geeze." Santana says, biting her lip. She walks over and sits on the edge of her bed, and after a moment, pulls Quinn down onto it. "Look, I didn't mean that, Q."

"Yeah, right." Quinn sighs. "Just forget it, Santana."

"No, really." Santana takes her hand and holds it, rubbing her thumbs over Quinn's knuckles. Quinn watches it and feels a slight moment of vertigo, because even though their positions are swapped, this is still what it would look like if they held hands. "You actually still look great, for a pregnant chick."

Quinn snorts. "Thanks."

Santana sighs, and rolls her eyes dramatically. "And before you got knocked up? Your body was rockin', Q. I used to be so jealous of you."

Quinn shakes her head. "How?

"C'mon, kid. Your ass? It's to die for."

Quinn feels the blood rising in her cheeks, and she sucks her lips into her mouth. "It's enough, Santana. It's okay."

Santana presses her thumb into the meat of Quinn's palm. "I mean it, blondie."

"Okay." Quinn can't help the shy smile that creeps over her face.

* * *

The second day goes less smoothly than the first, and even Quinn – who has been incredibly patient during this – is starting to get aggravated. In Santana's body, she feels like a sexual object: so many boys whose names she doesn't even know jeer at her in the hallways, and she can't pass by a group of them without being groped. She doesn't remember getting this kind of harassment before she was pregnant, but she thinks it has something to do with being Quinn Fabray – the daughter of Russel Fabray, captain of the Cheerios, captain of the celibacy club.

It makes her irritated at everything, and the glee club rehearsal doesn't go any better than it did the day before. Mr. Schue scolds her for 'holding back,' which makes her snap.

"You know what, Mr. Schue? Nobody cares about this stupid glee club! We all have way too much going on in our lives right now to care about showtunes!"

Mr. Schue frowns at her, gripping his chin. "Santana, is there something you want to tell us?"

Quinn squints at him.

"She's pregnant," Puck says. When Finn turns to look at him, his eyebrows shoot up. "Hey, it's not mine!" Then his face drops. "Wait – is it?"

"Oh my God, Puck," Mercedes says, with clear disgust on her face.

"No, I'm not pregnant!"

"Oh, good," Puck says, relieved. "She's just on her period, then."

"Are you _joking?"_ Rachel says, but with such indignation that Mike looks at her skeptically. Sometimes it's hard for Rachel to reign in her Rachelness to be appropriately Tina.

"That's it. This rehearsal is over."

Quinn grabs Santana by the wrist and stomps out of the choir room.

"I'm so tired of this," Quinn mutters to Santana once they're alone. "I hate it. I just want everything to be normal."

"I know." Santana sighs. "Let's go home and eat ice cream and watch reruns of Full House."

Santana's parents don't react as strongly to the presence of Quinn today as they did yesterday. Quinn is in such a foul mood she thinks she does a good job of imitating Santana – even though she feels guilty for it afterwards. Mrs. Lopez serves up bowls of vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce, and the pair of them lay back on Santana's bed to eat.

"It sucks being you," Quinn says morosely. "I think the entire football team has grabbed my ass over the last two days."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Tell me about it. They're assholes."

Quinn looks at her curiously. "Why do you put up with that?"

Santana shrugs slowly. "It's easier to ignore it than to fight it. Sometimes, if they get too grabby, I might slap one of them – but then some other guy thinks it's funny, wants to see if I'll do the same thing to him. Or they get pissed off."

Quinn stares, hard, at the side of Santana's face. She wishes – for many reasons – that they were in the right bodies, but this time is so she could better read Santana's emotions.

"That isn't right. You shouldn't have to put up with that."

Santana shrugs. "It is what it is. I have enough of a reputation for being a bitch, anyway, that usually they leave me alone."

Quinn eats a spoonful of ice cream. She can't think of what it would be like to be in a situation like that – she's been made to feel uncomfortable before, sure, but she thinks that if she were in that position, she might feel.. _terrified_. Helpless. It makes her stomach roll.

"It's no cakewalk being you, Fabray," Santana says, digging into her ice cream bowl. "I can't believe the dirty looks you get from everyone. Everybody always whispering about you. Sometimes I just feel like yelling, 'SO WHAT? I GOT KNOCKED UP! DEAL WITH IT!'" Santana shakes her head. "And the teachers are almost worse. I never knew that old biology hag, Mrs. Davis, was such a judgmental bitch."

Quinn laughs softly. "You get used to it, I guess."

"Well, it isn't right." Santana's face screws up. "You're kinda doing something brave, aren't you? Having a baby? You could have taken the easy way out if you wanted." She gives a slow shrug. "I would have."

Quinn sighs, sets her bowl down on Santana's bedside table. "I thought about it. Sometimes I still wish I would have done it."

Santana nods, biting her lip. "I always used to think how _stupid_ you were. How incredibly stupid, to get pregnant in the first place." Quinn can see that Santana's cheeks are a dark crimson color. "And then – to not just, take care of it?" Santana shakes her head. "I used to think you were the biggest idiot on the planet."

Quinn looks down to the swell in Santana's abdomen. She hasn't thought about having an abortion in a long time, but she thinks – she thinks if she had, eight months ago, realized the full implications of this.. she might have reconsidered.

"I realize it isn't you being stupid." Santana clears her throat. "You got pregnant, which is just unlucky. It could happen to anyone. I'm surprised it hasn't happened to _me_," She says, with a humorless laugh. "But still, having this baby is a big thing. The biggest thing, I think." Quinn watches as Santana's hand curls protectively over her stomach.

Quinn laughs, trying to break the somber mood. "That's just the hormones talking, Santana. Deciding to not have an abortion doesn't make me brave, or deciding to have one wouldn't have made me smart. It's just life. My life." She closes her eyes. "I wouldn't put you through it if I had any choice about it."

"Oh, hey. I know that." Santana gives her a small smile, nudges her shoulder. "None of this is your fault."

"Yeah." Quinn smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm giving the baby up for adoption, Santana."

Santana's face goes blank, but only for a second. "Really?"

"Yes," Quinn nods. "It's the best decision. I can't – I can't raise a baby with Puck. Come _on_." She rolls her eyes. "I'll find a family to raise that baby, somewhere far away from Lima. She won't ever have to deal with.. all of this."

Santana listens, and then finally nods. "It's a good idea, Quinn." She smiles briefly. "But hard."

"Yes. It will be hard." Quinn doesn't kid herself into thinking it will be easy by any means.

After they take showers and do their homework, the pair of them crawl beneath the comforter on Santana's bed. In the dark, Santana turns to her, and gropes for her hands beneath the blanket. "Here," She whispers. "She's kicking."

Quinn presses her hands against the swell of Santana's belly, and she feels her baby kicking her through the skin. It makes her laugh, but quickly that laugh turns into a sob, and her voice strangles on it. She doesn't know why she's crying – except that everything inside of her is a mashed up mess of sadness and happiness, of hope and fear. It makes her entire chest ache with the weight of it.

"Don't cry, Q," Santana says softly, pulling her close.

Quinn can tell, by the sound of her voice, that Santana is crying, too.

* * *

They wake up the next day in their own bodies. The relief of it shocks Quinn, even though being back in her own body means she has to deal with being eight months pregnant.

"Well, this is good." Santana says, almost awkwardly.

"Yeah." Quinn sighs.

She thinks things change between her and Santana, though it might not be completely obvious to anyone else. Santana sits with her at lunch, and in glee club – she glares at Puck if he gets too close – and she carries Quinn's books, too, from time to time. Santana isn't the effusive sort, so Quinn would never expect her to _admit_ it, but she thinks Santana might feel a little sorry for her.

Quinn, for her part, does her best to keep crowds of jocks from sliding their hands up Santana's skirt – one incident had her yelling so loudly at a sophomore basketball player that he almost wet himself – but Santana is brusque about this gesture, shrugging it off.

"I don't need you to protect me, Quinn," She tells her, with acid in her tone. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm just trying to help, Santana."

"Don't."

Quinn doesn't know how to change the dynamic between them, so she doesn't try. But she does hold Santana's hand from time to time, and she lets Santana carry her backpack.

When the time comes for her baby to be born, she asks to have Santana in the room. It only feels right – she thinks Santana is, at least a little bit, this baby's mother, too.

Quinn cries when her daughter is born. Santana cries, too.


	4. Day 04: Historical Time Period

A/N: I'm apologizing, beforehand, for anything that might be considered offensive about this, or anything historically inaccurate. It's based on loose historical facts and I didn't care to do a lot of research, so there's that. I'm also sorry for the liberties I took with canonical facts, like that Santana is actually Mexican and her mother is also Hispanic. I changed a few details as necessary to fit this oneshot. I tried to write it as gently as possible, and I certainly didn't mean to rub anyone the wrong way with it.

**This story is set in antebellum Georgia. That means that there is a highly fictionalized depiction of slavery, and there are themes and situations in this oneshot that are sensitive to that. **

Day 04: Historical Time Period

_I'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands_

Quinn Fabray is used to getting what she wants.

She is the only daughter of Judith and Russel Fabray, of the South Georgia Fabrays. She is what's graciously known as a princess of cotton – because her daddy owns one of the largest plantations in the south. Quinn has had hopeful men after her hand in marriage since before she could talk; her father dotes on her endlessly, and her mother shows her off to all of the high society ladies.

For all of the advantages she's been afforded in life, there is just one thing that Quinn wants that she can't, technically, have – and that's a slave girl by the name of Santana.

Of course, one day Quinn will be the de facto owner of all of the slaves on her daddy's property, but it isn't exactly _ownership_ she wants of Santana.

Santana is the most beautiful girl Quinn has ever seen, and that's including white folk. It's whispered that Santana is a mulatto, and Quinn would believe it. There was even some talk, when she was born, that a certain white man of high repute fathered her – disgusting slander that Mrs. Fabray shot down the second she heard it – but as Santana grew, those rumors fell away. Her mother gave her the name _Santana,_ and coupled with the look about her, the talk then turned to passing Spanish and Mexican migrants who were occasionally hired to help with the harvest.

Quinn isn't privy to these rumors, at least not officially. But she still hears the talk, and when she was young she was tended by a negro nursemaid named Denna who sometimes forgot to censor her tongue around the quiet blonde girl.

Santana and Quinn are of an age, and Quinn has always been aware of her, at least on the periphery. Santana was brought into the house at an early age, due to her complexion, even though her mother is one of the ones who tend the fields. Quinn knows that this is the standard practice on other plantations as well – it isn't spoken about, but Quinn knows it's because the lighter ones tend to be less offensive to the eye.

The next obvious thing about Santana is that she's _wily._ Quinn knows the reason Santana never serves supper or waits on guests is because she can't keep her mouth shut, even though at first glance she's so pale she could almost pass for a non-negro. Quinn has heard Denna – and the other kitchen ladies, Joanie and Tessa – gossiping about the spitfire young Santana, who is constantly banished to the more menial tasks, like scrubbing the stairways and tending the garden. Santana can't be trusted to keep her tongue in check around cultured white ladies, that's the word on her.

Maybe it's those particular rumors that draw Quinn to Santana, because she has always wished to possess the sort of innate boldness that Santana exhibits. Quinn can't imagine stepping a toe outside of her parents' expectations; she can't imagine not living up to the fabled Fabray image.

Quinn would say her wanting of Santana isn't necessarily – unnatural. She doesn't think of it as wanting her the way a man wants a woman, or the way a dog wants to mate. Quinn doesn't think of it as anything so _repulsive._ Instead, she thinks of it as being captivated by her beauty (and she _is_ beautiful; everyone says so, even Quinn's mother, who dislikes most negroes on principle), and a desire to understand her better; a desire to possess the same kind of indigenous spark that fuels Santana, but that doesn't live in Quinn at all.

Of late, Quinn's wanting has grown to a consuming fascination – she finds herself spying on Santana as she washes the stairs, or dusts, or scrubs the laundry. Quinn finds reasons to do her needlework in the solar while Santana sweeps, and other times she pokes her head into the kitchen when Santana is baking. Sometimes, her old nurse, Denna, scolds her – in the goodnatured way she has – for being a bother, for being caught up underfoot. Quinn is a girl of sixteen, and she's of marrying age; she shouldn't be pestering the negroes while they clean or cook, like some wayward toddler.

Quinn didn't know she was so obvious, until Santana confronts her about it one day. Quinn had been snooping around the garden, trying to catch a glimpse of Santana pulling tomatoes from the vine, when Santana startles her, by approaching from behind.

"Miss," Santana says, and it makes Quinn whip around, her heart in her throat.

"S-Santana," Quinn says, a hand over her heart. She had thought she was being sneaky, but it appears not; Santana is watching her with a bemused quirk of a brow, a hand resting on her hip.

"What can I help you with, Miss Quinn?"

Quinn can't help but feel like Santana is laughing at her somehow; and even though she says the right words, there is an undertone of mockery that Quinn can't quite place – but it's still unmistakable.

"I was just—"

"I see you watching me, you know," Santana says, and Quinn is so startled at being interrupted by a _slave_ that she nearly swallows her tongue.

"I never—"

Santana shakes her head, amused. "What do you want?"

Quinn can think of nothing to say, so she stares at Santana. Santana holds her gaze, and Quinn is unused to making direct eye contact with anyone, let alone a slave. It makes Quinn's face hot and her mouth go dry, and when she finally finds her voice, it's small and whispery:

"I just like watching you."

Santana's brow creases, and she studies Quinn thoughtfully.

"I suppose you can."

Quinn is flabbergasted that Santana just gave _her_ permission to do anything – but Santana steps around Quinn, and continues into the garden, leaving Quinn to stare after her as she goes.

* * *

Quinn is a passingly clever girl; her tutors always told her so. She grasped the concepts of reading, writing, and arithmetic fairly easily, and she also soaked up etiquette lessons like a sponge. She likes to spend long days in her father's library, consumed with books, and she has a reputation for being bright. Russel appreciates having a daughter who is not mindless and vapid, and so he encourages her – there is talk that the reason Quinn has not been suitably engaged is due to the fact that Russel wants to find a man he considers a mental match for his daughter.

This cleverness is what makes her approach her mother one day, and she decides to request Santana as her personal maid.

"Why, dear?" Judith is busy plucking through her collection of gowns. "Has Millie displeased you in some way?"

Santana shakes her head, quickly. "No, Mother, of course not. Millie is a gem. I just think Santana might be better suited for the task –"

Judith turns to regard Quinn, and it makes Quinn chew on the skin of her cheeks. "Is it because she's a high yellow?"

Quinn's cheeks flare, and she shrugs.

"Use your words," Judith clucks.

"Perhaps." Quinn knows this is the closest she'll come to admitting out loud that her attraction for Santana has anything to do with her skin color.

Judith hums, runs a thumb over a pale pink taffeta gown. "Well, certainly, if you feel she's up to the job. But there has been some talk – of insolence."

Quinn nods. "I'll make sure she behaves."

"It might be good practice for you," Judith concedes. "Well, all right. I'm sure your father won't care."

Quinn feels a flash of triumph when she leaves her mother.

She tells Denna of the change – and Denna looks at her strangely, but doesn't question her. The next day, Quinn wakes to find Millie moved out of the tiny room off the side of her own bedroom that has always housed her various servants over the years. She doesn't see hide nor hair of Santana, though.

Quinn finds herself in a sort of dilemma – she has never gotten dressed without the aid of someone else. She is standing in front of her wardrobe, pulling delicately at the corset she has always needed help getting into, when her door creaks open.

Santana looks wary and annoyed, but all Quinn feels is a rush of relief. She didn't want to have to embarrass herself by parading around in her nightclothes searching for Santana. Santana's hair is pinned to the top of her head, and her arms are full of her personal effects; a few changes of clothes, a hairbrush, a wooden box. Quinn points wordlessly to the chambers leading from her room, and Santana walks into them hesitantly.

"What is going on?" Santana asks, and her voice is full of incredulity. "Have you lost your mind?"

"_Excuse_ me?" Quinn's jaw drops.

"Why would you have Millie replaced like that?" Santana turns, her face full of accusation. "What did she do wrong?"

"N-nothing," Quinn finds herself shrugging, which is a habit her mother detests. "I just prefer to have you as my maid. Millie has done nothing to offend me."

Santana's eyes narrow, and she stares at Quinn for a long moment, suspended in the doorway between her new sleeping quarters and Santana's.

"I don't know anything about being a maid to you, Miss Quinn."

"You'll learn." Quinn clears her throat. "I had thought we could – become friends."

That cocky, amused expression returns to Santana's face. "Why would you want to be friends with a slave?"

Quinn shrugs again. "Why not?"

Santana pauses, and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth speculatively; Quinn finds her gaze darting down to it, and then back up to her eyes. "Why not?" She echoes, and it makes Quinn smile.

* * *

As far as maids go, Santana is a _terrible_ one – she has to be talked through even the most basic of tasks, and even then, Quinn finds herself seeking out Denna or Millie to properly lace up pieces of her clothing she can't reach herself. It isn't for lack of trying on Santana's part; rather, Quinn gets distracted by the closeness of her, and sometimes her mind wanders, and she forgets to tell Santana a step or two. Santana has a hard time adjusting, at first, to sitting quietly with Quinn while she knits or does needlepoint, and she watches the other slaves with a hungry look when Quinn spends midday with her mother for tea. Santana is smart enough to keep silent in the presence of Judith, but when she's alone with Quinn, her mouth runs a gambit on how annoyed she is with leisure, and how _lazy_ she thinks Quinn is. Quinn would normally find this kind of talk from a negro to be offensive – and in some places, it's actually a crime – but coming from Santana, Quinn just takes it as part of the package.

"It would probably suit you to learn how to stitch clothing, you know," Quinn says from her rocking chair. Santana sits on the ground beside her, staring longingly out the deep bay window.

"Oh, tch," Santana scoffs. "The kind of stitching _you_ do is worthless. I actually mend clothes."

Quinn glances up from her lap, her eyebrows high. "You know, if my mother overhears you –"

"She'll put me back in the kitchens, where I _belong,_" Santana finishes.

Quinn sighs. "Santana, I don't mean to keep you against your will. If you want to be sent back to the kitchens, I'll send you back."

Santana looks up at Quinn with a kind of light in her eyes. "Would you?"

Quinn nods. "If you want."

Santana chews on her lip, a habit Quinn has noticed she has for when she is nervous. "If we're to be friends, I can't do it from the kitchens."

Quinn inclines her head. "I agree."

Santana picks a fingernail over the floor. "I'm not used to so much idle time."

Quinn looks at her. "Is there some task in particular you'd like to do?"

Santana inhales, and Quinn can tell that now she's not just nervous – she's frightened. She glances around the solar, before edging in closer to Quinn.

"You could teach me how to read," She whispers.

"That's _illegal,_" Quinn warns, even though she feels her heart kick up in her chest.

Santana looks at her for a long moment. "A white girl can't be friends with a slave girl, no matter how light her skin is."

Quinn's eyebrows crinkle. "I don't think that's true, Santana. We're both just – people, aren't we?"

Santana swallows. "If we're both just people, then why can't I read? Why is there.. any of this?"

"I don't make the rules. This is the way it is." Quinn shrugs.

Santana shakes her head. "Then you might as well send me to the kitchens, Quinn, if you're willing to break only one rule for our friendship, but obey all the others."

Quinn's fingers knot on the material in her lap, and she can feel her heart pounding in her chest.

"We'll have to be very careful."

Santana holds her breath, and she nods carefully. "Can we start now?"

Quinn almost laughs. "Who knew that any negro would be so eager to learn?"

Santana scowls. "A negro is as eager to learn as a white man is."

"It might be dangerous to say things like that." Quinn stands up, and uses her own hand to help Santana up, too.

"It doesn't make it less true."

* * *

Quinn is too nervous to use the actual primers that she learned from as a child, so she teaches Santana in an unorthodox fashion – she uses sticks and a box of dirt, kept underneath her bed. She teaches Santana the vowel sounds, the length and shape of the letters. She uses tiny rocks to sketch into the floorboards of her room, wiping away the chalk marks at the end of the lesson.

Santana is never satisfied – she always wants _more_, and Quinn is surprised at her voracity for learning. Quinn remembers how much her male cousins fought against long days locked up in a school room; she wonders if all negroes would be as hungry for letters as Santana is.

It only takes a few weeks before Santana is putting together simple sentences, and Quinn wonders if Santana didn't already know how to read, in a fashion. She feels like her progress is nothing short of a miracle.

It occurs to her, one day, that Santana is learning with such concerted speed that – well, that Santana is in a race of sorts. But Quinn wants to know, against what is Santana racing? What sort of opponent does she face?

Quinn has just finished bathing in her room when she decides to confront Santana about it –

"Are you planning on going somewhere?"

Santana is in the middle of putting away the bathing things; the sponges and rags, the soap. She stops and turns to look at Quinn, and her expression is patently guilty.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Is it _true?"_ Quinn's eyebrow quirks. "Santana, why would you ever want to leave? Have I mistreated you someway?"

Santana looks dumbstruck; she stares at Quinn, her fists in tight knots.

"You're dripping on the floorboards," Quinn whispers.

Santana shakes her head, and then dumps the rags and sponges unceremoniously into the tin bucket that had been Quinn's bathwater. "I'm not going anywhere, Miss Quinn."

Quinn knows, by now, that when Santana refers to her as _miss_ when they're alone, it's because she's annoyed.

"No one has told me you plan to leave." Quinn says slowly, and she can tell Santana is watching her carefully. "I also know that it would be a very unwise decision. I can't protect you from my father if you run away, and are captured by slave hunters."

Santana is getting angry, and Quinn can tell – Santana looks at her with fire in her eyes, and something about it twists Quinn's gut. She feels excited, though the prospect of arguing with a slave shouldn't do that to her; nevertheless, Quinn can feel her blood quickening.

"What would your _father_ say about our reading lessons, Quinn?"

Quinn bites her lip. She's never been threatened before, but she thinks she understands that Santana is threatening her.

Quinn doesn't know what to say, or how to say it. She stands, wrapped in a towel, and Santana looks at her from across the room. Everything in her life has taught Quinn that _she_ is the superior, in this situation; but she feels helpless, somehow.

While Quinn is deliberating, and the silence grows thick between them, something changes in Santana – her eyes take on a predatory gleam, and she slowly sets down the bucket she was holding. The way Santana moves puts Quinn on alert – her muscles bunch and tense, and her eyes are wide. Santana steps closer to Quinn, closing the distance between them; and when Quinn meets her gaze, Santana is smiling.

"What are you smiling about?" Quinn asks. Her throat is tight, and she can hear her own heart beating in her chest.

Santana doesn't respond. She steps into Quinn's personal space, and Quinn doesn't flinch – even though she isn't used to anyone being so near, so.. _intimate._

Santana is even more beautiful in this proximity; Quinn holds her breath, because she can't quite believe how visibly stunning Santana is – in every detail, from her hairline to her chin. Quinn knows that the slaves who live in the house are generally more hygienic than those in the fields, but Quinn has never noticed anything even remotely grimy about Santana – except her feet, because she has a penchant for running around barefoot – and up close, Quinn can see that her skin is smooth and unblemished, a pale sandstone color. Her eyes are catty and slanted and dark, and are the one thing, perhaps, that give proof to her negro roots (that and her hair has a tendency to frizz in the moist heat of summertime) – but Quinn doesn't find them anything besides fascinating. Her lips are soft and pink, and so full; and Quinn knows the place right on Santana's cheeks where dimples peek out during a smile.

Quinn's shoulder muscles bunch when Santana reaches for her, but she doesn't shy away – instead she keeps her eyes wide open the closer Santana comes. Santana settles her fingertips along the nape of Quinn's neck, and her thumb traces the vein that pounds with Quinn's pulse. Quinn feels frozen, and like she can't breathe, because Santana is so near and is _touching_ her and _looking _at her with those dark, feline eyes.

"Don't scream," Santana whispers, the moment before she presses her lips against Quinn's.

Quinn has never shared a kiss like this – a kiss that lingers, that is full of pressure and heat. Quinn's entire body goes rigid, and she breathes in sharply at the unfamiliar sensation. Santana's thumb strokes gently, gently over Quinn's neck, and the motion is reassuring – almost soothing. Quinn's throat hums, a quiet vibration; Santana takes this as an invitation to slide her tongue out, and then between Quinn's lips.

Quinn gasps, and at that moment, Santana pulls her closer, holding her steady by the neck, and both of them can feel the wild, erratic way Quinn's pulse beats out of control. Quinn feels heat in her cheeks, heat in her chest, and lower – tightening her belly and singing up and down her nerves, to her fingertips, to the edges of her ears. Santana tastes something like cinnamon; spicy and sweet at the same time; overwhelming, intolerable.

Quinn's lungs struggle to breathe, and her head swims. Quinn feels the same way now as she does in the height of summer, when the air is too thick to swallow and even flies stagger in the heat – except in Quinn it's accelerated, and Quinn has the same lightning-quick fluttering in her chest that she has when she knows a wildfire has broken out.

Santana pulls away slowly, and Quinn's eyes flutter open in the same instant. She knows her cheeks are red, and every part of her is pounding. She stares at Santana, and Santana is smiling – a self-assured smile.

"Santana," Quinn whispers. "What was that?"

Santana shrugs. "I know why you watch me, Quinn."

Quinn shakes her head. "This isn't why—"

"It is." Santana says confidently. "I know."

Quinn shakes her head again in denial. "I never thought such things—"

"Just because _you_ didn't know the reason, doesn't make me wrong, princess." Santana is smirking now. "Do you want me to kiss you again?"

Quinn wants to say _no,_ she wants to push Santana off of her – she knows any well-bred girl would do the same. She knows that this _kissing_ was just a distraction, and Santana did it to turn her mind away from – what was she thinking about before? She can't quite remember, because all she has now is the memory of Santana's lips against hers, and Santana's breath on her cheek.

Instead, Quinn sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and stares at Santana.

Santana laughs, a playful, full-throated sound that makes goosebumps appear on Quinn's forearms. "You do." She gets another light in her eye – one that, now, makes Quinn's stomach drop, partially in anticipation, partially in memory. "Lay down on the bed. I want to show you something."

Quinn tiptoes over to her bed and sits on it, gnawing on her lip. Santana walks over to the door and then turns the latch to lock it – and that makes Quinn nervous. She doesn't know why. She clutches at the towel around her body, even though Santana has seen her naked countless times, and her hands fidget in her lap.

"Lay down," Santana says again, and this time she presses her hand firmly into Quinn's shoulder. Quinn lays back reluctantly – she is still afraid, even though she knows one shout would bring everyone in the household to her aid – and she stares at Santana with wide, wild eyes.

"Just relax," Santana murmurs. "You'll like this."

"I don't know about that," Quinn's voice quavers. She swallows, and her hands are in such tight fists that they hurt.

"You don't need to be afraid." Santana smiles, and then presses her lips to the corner of Quinn's mouth, and then her cheek, and her jaw.

"What are you doing?" Quinn whispers. The light in the room is dim, lit only by an oil lamp on her bedside table – and even though Quinn is anxious, and every nerve in her body feels twisted too tight, she wishes for darkness.

"If you want me to stop, I'll stop," Santana assures her. She shimmies out of brown and white plaid dress she wears, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. Quinn's eyes go wide at the sight of Santana in just her under-clothes – though they're white, and still cover her from shoulder to knee. Santana unbuttons it quickly, however, and then it falls to the ground, too, and Santana is suddenly naked.

Quinn swallows and turns her face, and she wonders why she doesn't stop this – her heart thunders in her chest and she feels dizzy. But she can't deny that.. she _does_ want it, even though she has no idea what_ it_ is. She knows for certain that she _shouldn't_ want it.

Santana finally dims the light in the room, and Quinn feels her breath explode out of her in relief; but a moment later the bed dips, and Santana is crawling towards her. Slowly, gently, Santana unwinds Quinn's fingers from the edge of her towel, and then she tugs it away. Quinn's skin is cold and damp, still, from the bath she had only moments before – her hair is clingy and fragrant – but Santana's hands are warm.

"Quinn," Santana murmurs, and in the dark, her voice has a different quality. It sounds almost loving. She presses her mouth again to Quinn's face in soft, gentle kisses, on her eyelids and chin and cheeks, but not on her lips – until Quinn is practically squirming with eagerness. Santana teases her by kissing directly under her chin, by her jaw, and then up high on her face, on her temple. The kisses are as soft as rain, but they make Quinn inexplicably thirsty; she finds herself reaching out, fumbling in the dark, to pull Santana's face where she wants it.

Santana is grinning when their lips come together again, and Quinn swallows Santana's laugh. It's easier in the dark; it's easier to forget – that she shouldn't want this, shouldn't want to be doing it.

While Santana kisses her, her hands start to roam – over the dips and valleys of Quinn's stomach, first, pressing lightly along the incline of her navel, tracing the rigid outline of her hips. Her fingertips are light and exploring, and they cause Quinn to shudder when they ghost upwards, tickling the underside of her breasts. Quinn kisses Santana harder, their lips making wet, urgent clicking noises in the silence, until Santana lays a palm, finally, on top of Quinn's breast. Quinn sucks in a breath and arches when Santana's fingers close on her nipple, and she strangles on a whine when Santana pulls her face away. Quinn can just make out her shadowy outline – she appears to be smiling – but in a moment Santana's mouth replaces her fingers, and Quinn writhes against the bedsheets.

Quinn has no vocabulary to describe it, because she never knew her body could feel like this – too hot, too hungry, too out of control. She digs her nails into the sheets and bites her lip to keep herself from crying out; but still, she gasps and moans, and her hips move to an internal rhythm. Santana's tongue drags from one nipple to the other, and Quinn groans at the feeling of Santana's teeth scraping against her skin. Her stomach knots and hardens, and heat floods from her breastbone down along the center of her body, ending between her legs. Everything throbs, and it's so intense that it's almost _painful_; she doesn't even know what she's asking for when she mutters _please, please, please_ over and over again – until Santana's hand snakes between their bodies, and touches her.

Now Quinn knows that it was she was asking for, and it's the most overwhelming sensation she's ever had – she can feel that she's wet, and that Santana's fingers slide against her easily; but she moans and her hips jerk until Santana finds the spot _just there,_ and begins to rub.

Quinn clutches at Santana, her chest heaving, while Santana works between Quinn's legs. She kisses her cheek and ear, and Quinn hides her face against Santana's shoulder, because she feels like she's spiraling out of control – she thinks this must be what it feels like to fly through the air and dive underwater all at once: exhilarating, and a bit frightening. The pressure builds inside of her, liquid and potent and scalding; her spine arches in a perfect crescent when it reaches its breaking point, and Santana holds her strong with one arm while the other continues to draw it out, slowly. Quinn's body seizes and then erupts, shaking and shuddering; her breath explodes in little half-sobs against Santana's neck. The stickiness between her thighs is amplified when Santana finally pulls away from her, and her legs come together.

Quinn feels like her body is filled with warm liquid – her bones are melted, it seems, and her muscles have gone lax. She lies, gasping against the sheets, while Santana holds her and strokes her hair and murmurs.

Quinn feels like some sort of secret has been revealed to her; like this was some kind of private thing her body kept from her – until now. Until Santana knew how to unlock it, and bring it forth.

Quinn curls into Santana, because now the dried sweat on her skin makes her cold, and Santana moves them both until she can pull Quinn's quilt down. She covers them, and beneath the blanket, Quinn starts her own tentative exploration of Santana's body, her palms sweeping over Santana's long arms, down to her fingers, and then over her ribs, on her stomach. Santana stops her, though, before she can go further – "Not now, princess. Go to sleep."

"But Santana—"

"It's all right. Go to sleep."

Quinn doesn't stop to think how strange it is to have Santana telling her what to do – instead she just does it.

* * *

Quinn has Santana in her bed almost every night after that. She always wants to do the same thing to Santana, too – but Santana always stops her, though sometimes Quinn can tell she doesn't want her to. Sometimes, Quinn can see that Santana's body is just as needy as hers is, and she shakes; she enjoys the feeling of Quinn's naked skin against her own as much as Quinn does. But Quinn suspects Santana has a reason for refusing, so she doesn't push it.

Quinn feels an affection building for Santana – and she wonders if it wasn't always a part of her, somewhere. She wonders if the way she feels for Santana hasn't always been living inside of her, constantly attracting her to Santana – and it feels natural and right and real, and it feels like _love,_ and Quinn wonders at the possibility of a woman loving a woman, the way Quinn loves Santana. She wonders if such a thing has ever existed in all the history of humanity, or if hers is the first heart to tumble in such a way, for the person who is absolutely, completely wrong for it.

Santana is sweet and kind to Quinn, in the bedroom; she's cheeky and defiant as a servant, but suitably deferent in front of others, and Quinn thinks she could have worse for a companion in that way. Quinn doesn't think Santana loves her in the same manner – because there's always something guarded behind Santana's eyes, something reserved and secret. Quinn hopes to chip away at it, as the years go by; she hopes that by the end of it, she can say that Santana loved her, too.

Sometimes, instead of making love, Quinn tries to talk to Santana – but it's like pulling teeth. Santana won't tell her things, even though Quinn tells Santana some of her darkest secrets; about the time, when she was seven, and she held her cousin Samuel beneath the surface of the pond until he fainted and had to have someone push the water out of his lungs. She tells her about the time she hid a spool of yarn, and Denna got reprimanded for it – she tells Santana all of the small, petty, hideous things Quinn has kept locked inside her heart, in the hopes that Santana will share her own stories.

One night, she does get Santana to talk – and it changes things between them.

"Santana," Quinn says, playing with the long length of Santana's arm. Santana lies with her face pressed into a pillow, and allows Quinn to draw her fingertips down the inside of her elbow. "If you weren't a slave, what would you like to be?"

Santana's body tenses, and then she turns to look at Quinn with narrowed eyes. Quinn thinks the reason Santana is so eager to share a bed with her is just for that – to share a bed. Quinn's iron-framed bed with a pillow mattress is much more comfortable than the pallet Santana would have to sleep on in her own quarters.

Quinn doesn't think Santana will answer – she thinks Santana will brush her off – but she doesn't. Instead, she clears her throat, and says:

"I think I would like to be a performer of some sort."

Quinn's eyebrows rise high on her forehead. "A dancing girl?"

"Or a singer." Santana shrugs. "I have a fair voice."

"Do you?" Quinn asks, almost laughing. "Sing something for me, then."

"Maybe another time." Santana chuckles, and pushes at Quinn teasingly. "If you weren't a pretty southern belle, what would you want to be?"

"Oh, I don't know." Quinn shrugs. "I've never thought about it."

"Really?" Santana's head quirks. "You've never thought about being something other than a wife or a mother?"

Quinn sighs and looks up at the ceiling. "A novelist, maybe."

Santana smiles at her, and kisses her on the shoulder. "A spinner of stories, is that it?"

Quinn wrinkles her nose at Santana. "You're making fun of me."

"I am not." Santana laughs. "Writing novels is important. Why else does anyone learn to read?" She presses her face into Quinn's shoulder for a moment. "More important than marrying some sod and having a handful of children, in any case."

Quinn smiles, runs a hand down the length of Santana's hair. "If I could, I would make you a performer, Santana."

Santana looks up at her sharply, startling Quinn. Quinn's eyes widen, and just the expression on Santana's face reminds Quinn of that night – the night she accused Santana of wanting to leave.

"I wouldn't want you to _make_ me one, Quinn." Santana says, lowly. "I'd want to do it myself."

"Well, all right." Quinn swallows. "If I could – at all – I would."

Santana squints at Quinn thoughtfully. "Would you?"

"Yes," Quinn says.

"Would you give me my freedom?"

Quinn's heart stops, for what feels like the longest instant in her life. She thinks about it – thinks about what it would mean, both to Santana and herself.

"I wouldn't want you to leave me," Quinn says softly.

"That isn't what I asked." Santana's voice is hard. "Would you set me free?"

Quinn has a wild, panicked moment where she imagines Santana leaving – Santana going away from her, to live a life up north, where a girl of her complexion might be more favorably looked upon. Santana might even pass, up north. Quinn has heard they get all types, from white-blonde Dutchmen to swarthy Italians.

Quinn lets go of a quiet breath. "If you wanted me to, I would."

Santana peers at her curiously. "Right now? Today?"

"Santana—"

"If you could." Santana persists. "If you could do it, right now, would you?"

"Yes," Quinn sighs. "Yes. But the fact of the matter is, I won't be able to do it – not for years. And even then, maybe not at all. My father might name my husband as his heir, not me. In that case, I'd have no say in it, Santana."

"If you asked your father to set me free, would he?"

Quinn frowns. "Is there some reason you want to leave, right now, so badly?" Quinn gestures to Santana, naked beneath the quilt. "Is this so troublesome for you, you want to flee from it?"

Santana smiles at Quinn – quick as a bobcat, and sly, too. "You know it wouldn't be from _you_ that I'd want to be free."

"No?" Quinn raises a brow. "If that's the case, why ask for freedom at all? It will always be me, here, with you. I would never sell you, you know." Quinn's face gentles. "I'd keep you with me, always."

Santana looks at Quinn with that distant, reserved look – the one that means the conversation is over, and that Santana is shutting down. Quinn just sighs. She thinks Santana is an enigma that she'll never get to the center of.

"The thing is, Quinn," Santana says softly, drawing Quinn's gaze back to her face. "As pretty as you are, and as wonderful as my service is to you – it's still just that. You're still just my master, Quinn. And I'm your slave."

Quinn slides her thumb along Santana's lower lip, and then she touches the place on her cheek where she knows Santana's dimple is hiding. "I don't think of you as my slave."

Santana doesn't smile. Instead, she looks at Quinn with the most solemn expression, and it makes Quinn's heart drop.

"I never forget for one moment that I'm a slave, Quinn." Santana pulls her face away from Quinn's hand. "And neither should you."

* * *

Quinn didn't think again on Santana and her strange request for freedom, not until she caught Santana and Samuel – her cousin, the one she nearly drowned – out behind the old cotton house. Quinn had been looking for Santana that day, but didn't want to kick up a fuss (because she didn't want her mother to know that Santana had wandered off), so she searched for her quietly, wading through the heat that was so poignant it was like to choke her.

The noises coming from behind the house were wet and violent, and Quinn had an idea what she would find when she looked there – but she still went to look, anyway, curious to see who would rut out in the open like this. The sight that greets her is of Sam, with his breeches down, and Santana with her skirts up around her hips. Quinn claps a hand over her mouth in shock, and her eyes widen – she has a moment to take in the way Santana's eyes are dead, and faraway; the way Sam holds both of her wrists in one of his hands – before she lets out a strangled yelp.

Sam almost falls to the ground, he's so startled; and his mouth hangs open, in surprise and fear. Santana looks at Quinn with pain in her eyes – and Sam has the decency to tuck himself back into his pants, quickly, stumbling over his words.

"Uh, Quinn – what –"

"You get out of here, Sam Evans, or so help me!" Quinn can barely see through the sheet of tears in her eyes; she doesn't know where the anger comes from, but it claws at her stomach like a demon. "I'll tell my father!"

"No! Quinn, don't –"

"Get off me!" Quinn hisses, shoving him. "Get out of here."

Sam looks between the two women with guilt in his cornflower eyes, before he shakes his head and trots off.

Quinn stares at Santana with hot fury and jealousy building up inside of her, like bile – she doesn't know why, but the thought of someone else touching Santana repulses her. Especially _there._ A place Santana guards so fervently that even Quinn isn't allowed to wander.

"Quinn –" Santana stands up, and it shocks Quinn to see that there are tears in her eyes, too. "Don't cry."

"How could you?" Quinn feels a sob rip from her chest, and she pushes a hand against her face to ward it off. "How could you – let him? When you won't even _let me?_"

Santana tries to hold her, but Quinn balks; she shoves Santana away, and stumbles blindly into the rough siding of the cotton house. Quinn cries, hard, into her arms, and finally allows her feet to give out from beneath her; she slides along the wall until her bottom hits the grass.

Santana crouches in front of her, and she pulls Quinn's hands away from her face. "Quinn." Santana murmurs. "How could I stop him?"

"You could have cried out – someone would have heard –"

"And nothing would happen, Quinn." Santana says sadly. She squeezes Quinn's hands in her own, hard, until Quinn looks at her. "Or I would have been beaten. And it still would have happened. Quinn," Santana sighs, and kisses her fingers, one by one. "It's better not to fight."

"But I _love_ you," Quinn's voice breaks on a sob. "I love you, and you're _mine,_"

Santana jerks away from Quinn, and the disgust is clear on her face.

"I didn't mean it like that," Quinn wipes at her face. "I didn't mean it like—"

"I know what you meant." Santana's voice is cold. "But do you want to know something? Sam Evans thinks of me as _his,_ too." Santana stands up, slowly. "So does Finn Hudson, the overseer's son. So does the overseer, in fact." Santana's face twists on a snarl. "So does that nice older man who comes over on Sundays to court you, Will Schuester. Every white man I've ever met considered me _his,_ Quinn." Santana wipes the dirt from her dress, brushing aside the dry grass. "What makes you any different?"

"I would never – Santana," Quinn's tears are thick and sticky, and Quinn tries to dab them away. "I would never _force_ you to do anything."

"No?" Santana looks defiant. "If I ran away, right now, you wouldn't call for me to stop? You wouldn't tell your daddy that I ran off?"

"Santana –"

Santana crouches down again, swiftly, so close to Quinn's face that Quinn smacks her head on the side of the house to avoid a collision.

"Every day that I'm a slave, it's because I'm being _forced._" Santana hisses. "Every day that you keep me here, _you're forcing me to be a slave._"

Quinn doesn't have a chance to respond, because Santana stands up and then darts off, quickly.

By the time Quinn has picked herself up, wiped her cheeks, and straightened her skirts, she has an idea formed.

* * *

It takes her almost two months, but Quinn finally secures a contact with someone in the underground railroad. She knows she is risking her life and her freedom by doing it, but she figures – Santana had already sacrificed those things just by being born; what kind of a coward would she be if she wasn't willing to do the same thing? Quinn got lucky, because one of the girls she grew up with – Brittany Pierce – her family are active abolitionists. They still own slaves, of course, but they're vocal in the town meetings and Quinn always hears her father talking about Thomas Pierce as if he were a negro sympathizer.

It was fairly easy to convince Brittany to help her, because Brittany always suspects the best in people – she's sort of naïve like that – and, after two months of planning, Quinn is ready to get Santana out.

Santana has no idea, of course, so when Quinn wakes her up out of a sound sleep, she's understandably upset. Santana is always grouchy in the mornings, anyway, and it's not even truly morning; more like an hour after midnight.

"Hurry up. We have to go." Quinn whispers. "Pack your things."

Santana stares at Quinn with her jaw slack, but she doesn't question it. She rolls up her clothing and a small box of keepsakes into a knapsack, and follows Quinn out of the house.

Quinn's heart is beating fast, even though she knows the likelihood of anything going wrong is small. Brittany argued with her about this part of the plan until she was nearly blue in the face, but in the end, Quinn was stubborn; Quinn insisted on leading Santana out herself, rather than sending her alone.

This way, if someone happens upon them, Quinn would be able to make up an excuse – and Santana would go unpunished.

No one discovers them, though. Quinn walks with quick determination, and Santana struggles to keep up – blinded as she is, still half-asleep, and surprised.

"Where are we going, Quinn?" Santana is breathless.

"You're escaping," Quinn tells her tersely. "Someone is waiting for you at the edge of the property, and they're going to escort you to the north. To Canada," Quinn clarifies. "So there will never be any doubt of your freedom."

"Quinn.." Santana mutters. "How? Why?"

Quinn stops short. "Why do you think?"

Santana looks at her, this time with her lip trapped between her teeth. She seems so uncertain and afraid – not at all like the girl Quinn has come to know.

"We have to hurry," Quinn says, and yanks Santana forward.

It takes the better part of an hour to reach the creek where the getaway party is waiting. Quinn almost yelps when a tall, skinny man unfolds from the shadows – she clutches at her chest, her heart beating wildly.

"It's so good of you, Mr. Pierce." Quinn says around the fluttering in her chest. "You have my eternal thanks."

"Yes, ma'am," Thomas Pierce is a man of little words. He gestures to the shadows on the far side of the creek, where a wagon is waiting. Quinn thinks she spies Brittany inside of it – and it makes her jaw drop. What man would bring his daughter along for such illicit activities?

"This is where we say goodbye," Quinn says, turning to Santana. "Please take care of yourself. Don't do anything foolish, like write to me. My father will be very upset when he learns of this."

Santana drops her pack and stumbles into Quinn, throwing her arms around her. Quinn staggers back beneath the weight, and but steadies, and she embraces Santana back. For the last time, she listens to the way Santana's heart beats, and to her lungs breathing; she inhales deeply of her smell. "I'll miss you," Quinn whispers.

When Santana pulls back, there are tears in her eyes, and it makes Quinn's heart wrench.

"Come with me." Santana pleads, and it sends a shock of adrenaline coursing through her. "Please, Quinn. Come with me."

"I can't," Quinn's refusal is automatic. "I can't, Santana."

"What life is there for you here?" Santana's tears spill down her cheeks, hot and angry. "You'll be a brood mare, Quinn. Nothing else. No one will ever appreciate you, or your stories, or your words. Not like I will." Santana's hands squeeze, hard, onto Quinn's.

It breaks Quinn's heart to see Santana crying like this – it makes her own throat tighten painfully.

"Stop being foolish. My whole life is here."

Santana shakes her head. "We can make a new life together, Quinn. You don't have to stay here – here, you're just as much a slave as I am."

For one brief, beautiful instant, Quinn considers it. She thinks about the hard traveling, the lying, everything she would have to do in order to see them both safely over the border. It frightens her – but it excites her, too. The thought of living alone with Santana, just Santana, as equals – it's a sweet dream.

But it's only a dream.

"My father would never countenance it, Santana." Quinn holds Santana's face with both of her hands. "He would spend the rest of his life looking for me."

"He'll die, someday." Santana says.

"Go, Santana. Go." Quinn bites her lip, hesitating, before she kisses Santana. "I'll always love you, for wanting me to come."

Santana sobs, again, and the noise is like a bone cracking. "I'll always love you for letting me go."

It's the first time Santana has ever told Quinn that she loves her.

Quinn watches her as Thomas Pierce helps her up into the back of his wagon, and she cries, and cries, until Santana is out of sight.

* * *

Fourteen months later, Quinn Fabray marries her maternal second cousin, Samuel Evans.

Her mother arranged the marriage; she thought it would be best to keep the holdings within the family.

* * *

A year after that, Quinn miscarries her first child.

* * *

The next year, war breaks out; the south is torn apart, and Samuel Evans dies fighting for the Confederacy.

Her father is still alive after the fighting stops. He plans to marry her to Finn Hudson.

Quinn considers killing herself. She can see no other way to end her own suffering. She doubts she will bear a living child – and the thought of lying beneath Finn as he tries and tries to get her pregnant makes her stomach roll.

A letter comes. It has no return address, and is only addressed to Quinn.

_ I have heard about the war, and I hope to find you well._

_ I have thought of you often over these last two years, and miss you greatly._

_ I am wondering if you would reconsider my request to visit?_

_ If so, send a message through our old mutual friend._

_ I would love to hear from you, regardless of your choice._

_ All my love,_

_ Tanna._

Quinn stares at the piece of parchment as if it is a ghost, or gold, or something unfathomable; she reads the lines, over and over again, until her vision blurs with tears.

She gets ahold of Thomas Pierce, who has managed to stay out of the war, though he freed his own slaves long ago. Many of them have stayed on to work for him, as many as he could afford to pay.

"Can you get a message to Santana?" Quinn asks, and when he says he probably could, she continues: "Just one thing – _yes._"


	5. Day 05: Headcanon

Day 05: Headcanon

_and I'd be smart to walk away, but you're quicksand_

When this whole thing started, Quinn would never have guessed that it would lead to this. She hadn't thought their "two time thing" at a snazzy hotel in Lima would have led them down the road to cohabitation.

Yet here they are, lugging up the last pair of boxes of Santana's possessions into Quinn's quaint New Haven apartment.

Quinn likes to use the word _quaint_ because it reminds her of storybook cottages, covered in snow, with snakes of smoke curling upwards from their chimneys. It reminds her of the kind of postcard life she was promised she would have while she was growing up – and even though she's discarded many of the trappings of her childhood, some things aren't so easy to leave behind. So she calls her apartment quaint, and likes to pretend.

Santana doesn't call it quaint; she calls it drab and dreary, _a step up from the projects._ Quinn tries to ignore her – it's typical Santana – but she feels a little overprotective and proud of the whopping 900 square feet that she calls her own. She worked hard to get it, worked hard for everything inside of it, and Santana's pithy remarks always put Quinn's teeth on edge.

Her parents didn't want to let her get an apartment off campus. They fought her every step of the way, even going so far as to threaten to withhold money for her tuition. Quinn knows that it was a last ditch effort for them to maintain some kind of control over her life, because she's turning twenty-two in the spring and it makes them feel old. Quinn applied for scholarships and grants and student loans, and got a part time job working at a book store. Her parents relented when she signed the lease for this place, and now her dad deposits money in her checking account every month. Quinn feels a rush of triumph when she remembers that, because even though almost nothing has changed, it still feels like a step towards independence – she challenged her parents, and she _won._

"And now you don't have to go home every Thanksgiving and spring break," Santana had told her, with that cocksure smirk on her lips, when Quinn informed her about the apartment. "I bet that just tears Judes up inside, that you won't be there for every Easter mass from now on."

Quinn hadn't thought of that. She hadn't thought of how, now, when classes went on break, she wouldn't have to go back to Lima unless she wanted to. The last three years had left Quinn feeling mildly transient; always halfway here, and halfway there. Now she has her own place, a stable place. A home.

It hadn't been much at first, because the floors were scarred, unfinished wood and the walls were dirty and dark. She got her sofa from a thrift store and bought rugs from the flea market, and ordered wall hangings from Ikea. Quinn spent the first few weeks buying knick knacks and baubles to fill up the empty spaces, and gradually it came together.

Now, Santana is moving in, and although Quinn feels a little nervous about the transition, she knows that she's happy about it overall.

They've had a more on-than-off thing since that Valentine's Day three years ago, and since things haven't exactly taken off for Santana in New York, she was willing to accept Quinn's offer. Besides – long distance relationships _suck,_ but they're even worse when they carry on _forever._ And since Quinn plans to go all the way in law school, Santana knows that Quinn won't be leaving New Haven any time soon. It was a logical decision.

"Here we are," Quinn says, setting the last of Santana's boxes down. "Do you think that you'll be finished unpacking by tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Santana says, flopping down on the threadbare sofa. "Let's watch _The Wizard of Oz._"

Quinn thinks that Santana spending so much time with Rachel had an inherently detrimental effect on her character.

* * *

When Quinn gets home from her shift at the book store, her apartment is completely demolished. It actually looks like a small whirlwind went through it – and she can hardly breathe over the immediate anxiety she feels at the disarray. Quinn likes her things orderly. She likes everything to be in its place.

Nothing is in its place. Nothing.

The living room – which is usually so carefully put together – has piles of clothes on the floor, remote controls, magazines, DVDs, pictures. Even the little basket where Quinn keeps her knitting materials (yeah, she likes to knit, so what?) has been overturned, and now there's yarn _everywhere._ Quinn has to sidestep a pile of what appears to be Tupperware containers in order to actually enter the apartment, her eyes growing as wide as saucers on her face the more she takes in. From what she can see of the kitchen, every cabinet is cracked open and all of the drawers are upended – she can even see the glow from the little lightbulb inside the microwave, because the door is hanging open. Quinn walks quickly through her living room and then into the hallway, and bites her lip _hard_ at the sight of the linen closet open, with all of her towels and sheets strewn everywhere.

Somewhere, deep inside of her, a spark of rage ignites.

Carefully, very carefully, she pushes the door open to her bedroom.

Santana is digging around inside the dresser, and Quinn is knocked back by the relief she feels at seeing that her room is still mostly intact. The bed, with its lavender-and-rose patterned comforter, is still made nicely, and her books are all still neatly in their shelves. Quinn lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding, and then turns to Santana with her fingers curled into loose fists.

"What do you think you're _doing?"_

Santana doesn't even look up. She keeps rifling around in Quinn's socks and underwear, her hair falling in a loose dark curtain around her face. Quinn can tell she hasn't done much except ransack the place since she woke up – she's still wearing the silky polka-dot boy shirts and tank top she slept in, and she doesn't have any make up on.

"I'm just going through your stuff."

Quinn's throat closes on a choking noise, and the room spins for a moment – she can't believe the cavalier way Santana _said_ that. The spark of rage in her chest intensifes.

"I can see that." Quinn clenches her jaw and tries to stay calm. "Why?"

"Oh, it's a thing I do," Santana says casually. She throws a pair of lacy pink panties over her shoulder. Quinn watches it as it makes an arc and just barely misses landing on the bed.

"The apartment is torn apart," Quinn states unnecessarily.

"I'll clean it up."

Quinn feels pressure behind her eyes.

"Santana." She says the name slowly and deliberately. "Look at me."

Distractedly, Santana glances up, but her hands don't stop their exploration of Quinn's drawer. "What, Q?"

"What exactly are you doing?"

Santana shrugs. "I just have to do this when I—"

She stops, her eyes widening. Santana's body freezes, and Quinn furrows her eyebrows, annoyed at the sudden halt.

"What?"

"Quinn, what is this-?" Santana pulls her hand out of Quinn's drawer, and of course clutched in her palm is Quinn's vibrator.

Quinn's cheeks flush instantly to a dark crimson. She ducks her head, pulling her lip in her mouth, and her eyes skip away from Santana's curious ones.

"Uh—"

"Why didn't you tell me you have one of these?" Santana's face is split in a wide grin. "Q—"

"Babe," Quinn can't help the way her voice has a slight whine. "Just leave it alone."

"No." Santana chuckles. "How long have you had this?"

Quinn shrugs uncomfortably. "A few years."

"_Years?_ Quinn!" Santana closes Quinn's drawer – with the clothes still a messy pile inside – with a dull thud.

"What?" Quinn drags the word out, and she feels anxiety blossom in her chest. "It's natural to masturbate, Santana."

Santana chuckles. "I know! It just surprises me that you do!"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "We've been dating for three years, and you think it's so strange that I masturbate?"

Santana rolls Quinn's vibrator in her palms and squeezes it. "I guess I just never imagined –" Then she rocks back on her heels, and her eyebrows fly up. "Wait. I'm imagining it. That's hot."

"Santana," Quinn says with a scowl. "Stop. Be serious."

"I _am_ being serious." Santana grins at Quinn. "I'd love to see this baby in action."

"Ugh." Quinn makes a face. "Forget about it, Santana."

Santana gets a look on her face, then – and Quinn jerks back, just escaping Santana's lunge.

"No!" Quinn swats at Santana's hands. "Stop!"

"Aww, baby," Santana smirks, shuffles out of Quinn's arm reach, and then ducks inside of it – pressing her body close to Quinn's, lining their hips up. Quinn struggles, for just a second, against the dead weight of Santana leaning against her – but then she gives up with a grievous sigh, rolling her eyes. Santana runs a soothing hand down the length of Quinn's forearm.

"Santana." Quinn's face wrinkles with irritation. "I'm not going to do – whatever you're implying."

"But _Quinn.."_ Santana's smile is slow and deliberately seductive, and Quinn scowls at the transparency of it – even though it still makes her heart race.

"Nope." Quinn pushes a finger against Santana's lips, warding off a kiss. "You're a pervert."

"I am _not._" Santana grins. "I mean, unless you want me to be –"

"San_tan_a!" Quinn's cheeks flare with color.

"All right, sweetie," Santana says, and when she leans in, Quinn allows the kiss – but only briefly.

"I want to use this thing." Santana gestures with the vibrator, still clutched in her hands.

Quinn sighs, giving Santana a look. "All right, Santana," Quinn relents. "But not until _after_ you help me clean up this mess—"

Santana is already gripping Quinn by the hips and moving her towards the bed. Quinn stutters out a laugh and then a _whomph_ of air as Santana topples her, landing them both in a heap on top of the bedspread. Quinn's laugh is silenced by Santana's mouth, which is hot and wet and insistent; after a moment, she forgets what she was saying, or how to breathe at all.

"I'll clean it up later," Santana mutters, running her tongue along the curve of Quinn's neck.

Quinn grunts in assent. She can't really process what Santana is saying, anyway, because a rather distracting tugging has begun somewhere in her navel and moved downwards –

"You won't have to help me, either," Santana says, nibbling on Quinn's collarbone. "I can put it back so you wouldn't even know I did it."

Quinn squirms, impatient, and tugs at Santana's hair.

It takes a moment for it to dawn on her what Santana is actually saying.

"Wait." Quinn shifts, and Santana pulls her head up to look at Quinn. "Just how many times have you done this, before, anyway-?"

Santana blinks. "Uh, I don't exactly keep count, babe,"

"No!" Quinn's laugh is short and startled. "No, I meant – the other thing. The thing where you make it look like Hurricane Santana went through here."

"Oh." Santana tilts her head, pulling the corner of her lip into her mouth. Then she shrugs. "I don't know. A bunch."

Quinn stares at her for a full minute before she slowly closes her eyes. "You are so weird."

"Hey, you wanna talk about weird?" Santana's eyebrow quirks. "You're the self-proclaimed Christian who owns a vibrator. And in about ten minutes, you're going to be going down on me, so—"

Quinn snorts. "Ten minutes? You think pretty highly of yourself, don't you?"

Santana grins, and then rolls her body so that it presses against Quinn in all the right places – and Quinn doesn't let herself react, except for a quiet intake of breath.

"You just can't resist—"

"Stop talking," Quinn orders, and pulls Santana's face back to hers.

* * *

A/N: Sorry it's so short, guys. I kinda lost momentum. I really appreciate all of the feedback I've been getting, though! Thank you guys! You're all really lovely.


	6. Day 06: Secret Agents

Day 06: Spies / Secret Agents

_this slope is treacherous, this path is reckless_

Santana's boss is a total dick, and that's putting it lightly.

He's a tool by the name of Ken Tanaka, and sometimes Santana is so distracted by his eyebrows that she can't even listen to him talk – though he almost _never_ says anything even remotely worth hearing. Sometimes, by the end of a meeting or a debriefing, Santana is worried about the state of the union and humanity in general, that such a clown made it through all of the arduous hoops it takes to become a superior in this kind of business.

This time, she's busy imagining that the deep lines on his forehead are actually miniature Grand Canyons on the greasy, stubbly landscape of his sallow-skinned face, when one word snaps her out of her disgusted daydream –

"…and Lopez is with Agent Fabray."

Santana's eyes snap into focus, and she can tell that Ken is just counting down the seconds until he can escape this stuffy boardroom (he looks like he's jonesing for a deep fried twinkie right about now), because he's shuffling his stack of papers and his small, glittery, beetle-shaped eyes keep skipping over the room full of agents impatiently.

"Hold up." Santana's hand comes up, palm outwards, and she crinkles her eyebrows. "Are you telling me I was partnered with Malibu Barbie – for the Jefferson case?"

"That is correct."

Santana's expression transforms from mild disbelief to acute agitation in less than a second.

"Please tell me you aren't serious." Santana's voice is dripping derision. "The Jefferson case is too important –"

"And that is _exactly_ why you'll be collaborating with Agent Fabray on this one, Lopez," Tanaka says. His voice is low and grating and he's so jowly he could be mistaken for an English bulldog.

"What is this crap –"

"These orders are non-negotiable."

Santana throws her hands up in disgust. "Fabray is barely competent to handle the Cheney case, Tanaka –"

"Enough." Ken's face is shiny in the dull yellow light. He glances around the room, and Santana realizes he's pissed off for being argued with in front of all these people. She huffs, folding her arms with a jerky motion.

Ken's face is so red that it's almost purple, and she thinks if she keeps arguing with him he might have an aneurysm and collapse into the podium.

Tina's elbow nudges into her from the left. She grins at Santana good-naturedly when Santana turns to look, and all Santana can do is roll her eyes and scoff.

"Moving on." Ken gives Santana a pointed look. "Cohen-Chang, you have Abrams. Berry, you're with Puckerman –"

"Oh, _come on!_" Rachel Berry's voice is loud and dramatic, and Santana feels a rush of pleasure at seeing Ken's face wrinkle even more deeply at the objection from Rachel.

"These are final!" Ken slaps his stack of papers down on the podium. "I don't want any more lip, or you'll _all_ be doing scut work for the next month!"

Sam Evans hushes Rachel, and everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats.

"Finally," Ken barks, "Jones is with Hudson."

Santana can only see the back of Mercedes' head, but she can see Mercedes shake it so violently her earrings jangle.

"You have your orders," Tanaka says, looking over the rows of agents. "I expect regular updates on these cases. Some of them are very sensitive and important, so –"

"We aren't in preschool," Santana mutters. "Some of us actually _work_ these cases."

"Lopez!" Ken bellows. "That's enough!"

Santana snorts. "Are we dismissed?"

Ken stares at her for a tense moment, before he shakes his head in disgust. "Get out."

Tina grabs the cusp of Santana's arm in the shuffle to leave the boardroom, and Santana adjusts her pace to allow Tina to keep up.

"At least you don't have Hudson," Tina smiles while she says it, though. "Sometimes I don't know how he got into this business."

"It's shameful," Santana agrees. "Abrams is almost worse – I mean, he can't even walk. What does he think he's doing? Trying to get himself killed?"

Tina shrugs. "He's nice, and he's good at his job."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Everyone is good at that job, T. My dog could do that job."

Tina chuckles. "I don't know. I don't think I could do it."

Santana leads Tina into the break room, where half of their department is grumbling over styrofoam cups of coffee.

"I _hate_ Noah Puckerman," Rachel complains, loudly, to Sam Evans. "He's so – disgusting. He doesn't even try to negotiate anything - he actually _flirts_ with them!"

Sam's mouth drops. "No way? With which ones?"

"_All _of them! Even the Zekabous," Rachel practically shudders. "It's obscene."

Santana almost laughs, even though she thinks Rachel Berry is intolerable – because she can practically see Puckerman putting on his _smooth moves_ on the zeebees.

"What's your case, anyway, Berry?" Santana asks while facing a vending machine. She doesn't even turn to look at Rachel. "The W. H. Harrison?"

Rachel rolls her eyes emphatically. "Very funny, Santana."

"You have the Franklin case, don't you, T?" Santana glances up at Mercedes. "And don't you have the Lincoln case, Jones?"

Mercedes nods, trying to suppress a grin.

"Who do you have, Berry?" Santana finally chooses a bag of fruit snacks. She watches as the machine dispenses it.

"I'm working on the McKinley negotiation," Rachel jerks her head. "It's a primary case, as you know."

Santana laughs.

"No wonder Puck is on that case with you."

"Just what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Santana can feel Tina tensing beside her, but she can't help herself –

"It's just – with _your_ nose and _his_ hair – between you, you almost make up a member of their species. They probably like dealing with people who look like them."

Rachel's mouth drops, but everyone else in the break room chuckles, even Sam. Santana tears her packet of fruit snacks open, and starts picking out the purple ones.

Santana laughs when she notices Rachel staring at her nose in the reflection of the paper towel dispenser next to the sink.

Shaking her head, Santana pushes past the double doors that lead out of the break room. She doesn't have time for those losers.

Santana walks down the empty corridor, chewing on the purple fruit snacks slowly. She takes a right, and then a left, and then she leans against the doorjamb of the third door on the east side.

Quinn Fabray sits at her desk, tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. Santana watches Quinn's fingers pick over the flat surface, highlighting each key as she presses down.

"Hey, Luce," Santana says.

Quinn jolts and turns so quickly she rams her knee against the surface of the desk. She grimaces and then huffs, narrowing her eyes at the sight of Santana. "What do you want? Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's your name." Santana grins, her fingers digging idly into the pouch of gummies. "You hear about the Jefferson assignment?"

Quinn is rubbing her knee beneath the desk, and she frowns. "What about it?"

"We're partnered up."

Quinn pauses and then sighs.

"Why would they do that to me?" She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Do they want us to lose this negotiation?"

"I'm not too happy about it either, sweetheart," Santana gestures with the plastic bag. "Are you hungry?"

Quinn's eyes flit from Santana's face and then down to the proffered bag. After a moment, she lets out a breath. "Sure."

Santana takes the three steps to enter into Quinn's tiny office, and she hands off the fruit snacks.

Quinn shakes it around, frowning. "Did you eat all of the purple ones?"

"What? No." Santana runs her tongue over her teeth.

"This is like the third package of these I've gotten with no purple ones." Quinn sighs, pops a red one in her mouth. "They're my favorite."

"No kidding?" Santana can't stop herself from grinning. "You ready to move on this case or what?"

"We don't have a rendezvous until tomorrow," Quinn says, keying up her calendar into the air in front of her. "I have some final paperwork to look over."

Santana breathes a beleaguered sigh. "Bureaucrats,"

Quinn glares at her. "I'm a xenopsychologist, Santana."

"Right." Santana quirks an eyebrow. "You're practically a politician, but you don't get any of the perks. No hot secretaries to bang." Santana grins.

Quinn huffs. "And you're a glorified beat cop."

Santana laughs.

"You keep working on your comebacks, blondie." Santana smiles. "One day you'll come up with something remotely impressive."

"I don't have time for this," Quinn snaps. "Get out."

Santana shrugs, but she's grinning as she turns around.

"I'm a _scientist,_" Quinn mutters to herself, and it makes Santana laugh.

* * *

Santana whistles at the sight of Quinn Fabray all dolled up in a black pantsuit, her hair pinned up neatly on her head. She has to hand it to her – even though Quinn is annoying, and Santana thinks she took this job because of her retro obsession with some early 2000s show called Hannah Montana – that Quinn _does_ clean up good. She looks professional, in those no-nonsense heels and a black briefcase clutched in her hands. Santana shrugs herself away from the wall she was leaning against in order to fall into step beside Quinn.

"You look particularly good today, Fabray," Santana chuckles. "Are those rumors that you slept your way to the top true?"

Quinn throws an annoyed glance at Santana. "I heard you sold your soul to the devil to get where you are. Is that true?"

"Completely," Santana says with a nod.

Quinn sighs, but doesn't retort, because at that instant they approach the loading deck, and both of them raise their arms by rote. Santana watches Quinn out of the corner of her eye as the little red lines scan up and down her body, and she notices the way Quinn's face is set and serious.

They walk in tandem past the entry point, and Santana tips her head to the guys working the controls. Quinn checks her wristwatch impatiently at the second check point, but she doesn't grumble or complain like a lot of the other paper-pushers do. Despite herself, Santana likes that about Quinn.

After the third and final check point, Santana and Quinn sit next to each other, along with a few other pairs of agents, on the short shuttle ride up to the main space station. Santana notices Quinn frowning.

"What's wrong?"

Quinn shakes her head. "This part always gives me a headache."

Santana takes Quinn's hand in hers and squeezes, and Quinn offers her a brief smile.

The process is one Santana has gone through countless times, so it's second nature to her – but she knows Quinn does it less often. The thrum of the engines and the quick, sickening shift in pressure doesn't affect Santana, but she sees Quinn swallow, her cheeks paling.

"Hey, Q," Santana gropes for something to distract her with. "You ever figure out that thing you were working on – uh, about those little blue tribes on the planet of Si-donia or some crap?"

"Oh." Quinn looks at Santana, surprised. "Actually, I just filed a petition for a grant to send in a group of xenobiologists to study –"

Santana checks out of the conversation right about then, but she's good at faking it; she holds one of Quinn's hands in both of hers, and nods, while Quinn rambles on aimlessly about weird blue-skinned gilled aliens on a planet that doesn't have higher technology yet. Santana could care less about it, but Quinn is actually kinda cute when she talks about them, so she lets her do her thing.

When they finally dock, Quinn isn't looking so green, and Santana pats herself on the back for preforming her one good deed of the day.

"Let's get this over with." She tugs Quinn upwards, and ushers her forward.

After another series of security protocols, but this time administered by aliens that smell faintly like green mold and pretzels, with weird slimy tubes that serve as mouths and big, bulbous, jewel-colored eyes, Santana and Quinn are finally ushered into an office.

Santana stands next to Quinn as she unsnaps her briefcase on the table in front of her. When the ambassador comes in, Quinn smiles warmly and shakes his – uh, claws – and then they sit down.

Santana doesn't. She stands next to Quinn with her hands clasped in front of her and watches.

A lot of her job is just watching.

She's good at it.

* * *

Almost six hours later, Santana follows Quinn back down the corridor that would lead them to their shuttle. Santana is quiet because she can tell Quinn is tired – exhausted, maybe - and the corners of her eyes are tight and irritated. They sit down without a word, and instead of tensing up when the engines start, Quinn's head just flops back against the seat.

Santana has the urge to say – something. Something to comfort her, or encourage her. But every time she thinks of anything, she just can't say it, and so instead she watches Quinn's face wrinkle and tense during the flight, and doesn't say anything at all.

After they go through the protocol on their end, Santana snags Quinn's wrist and tugs her down the hallway that leads away from the debriefing office.

"What are you doing?" Quinn's voice is tired, but also annoyed. "Tanaka will want this report."

"Tanaka can fuck himself," Santana says. She turns her head, glancing furtively down the hallway, before pulling open a door and shoving Quinn through it.

Santana steps inside, shutting it behind her, and Quinn turns around with a fist on her hip.

"This is a supply closet." Quinn states, unnecessarily. There's a mop next to her. "We aren't doing this here."

"Yes, we are," Santana insists, and in a moment, she has her body pressed up against Quinn's. Quinn stumbles backwards, knocking into a shelf full of bottles of bleach and Pine-Sol. She lets out a surprised squeal that's silenced by Santana's mouth on hers.

When Santana pulls back, Quinn is a little breathless. "We can't – Santana –"

"Shh," Santana nips at the length of Quinn's neck, and she smiles at the way Quinn groans. "We can. You need it." She slips her hand beneath Quinn's shirt, untucking it, and she feels the way Quinn's stomach muscles coil and jump beneath her fingers. "Besides – did you really think you could get away with wearing _this_ all day?"

Quinn laughs, but it ends on a moan – Santana's hands are working beneath Quinn's pants, now, and her mouth is busy trailing hot, wet kisses up and down Quinn's neck.

"I thought you'd like the heels."

Santana grins, and Quinn loses the ability to talk when Santana's fingers slip into her.

When it's over, Quinn's skin is hot and sticky and her hair is a curly, frizzy mess – but her body is relaxed. Santana loves that sated, satisfied expression on her face. She loves the way Quinn's cheeks are pink and flushed, and the way her heart pounds in her chest.

"Feel better?" Santana smirks.

"Yeah." Quinn adjusts herself, standing up unsteadily. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

"Santana." Quinn says her name curiously. Santana turns to look, and the expression on Quinn's face is guarded. "What are we doing?"

"I think that is pretty obvious, Fabray."

"I know you eat all the purple fruit snacks." Quinn's eyebrows wrinkle. "I know you don't care about the tribes of Si-doria."

Santana examines her nails, trying to seem nonchalant, though she feels a weird little tickle behind her breastbone. "What's your point?"

"This is something," Quinn says, and it makes Santana's heart squeeze.

"It's sex in a supply closet, Quinn." Santana's voice is clipped. "Don't try to turn it into some fairytale romance."

Quinn sighs. She looks at Santana, and the way her eyes roam Santana's face makes her feel uncomfortable, like something itchy is crawling over her skin.

"I'm tired of the games," Quinn says, and she does – she sounds tired.

"That's half the fun," Santana replies, but her heart isn't in it.

Quinn pauses, and presses her palm to Santana's cheek. Santana has time to count the speckles in Quinn's eyes before she finally pulls away.

"Figure it out soon, Santana. I'm tired of waiting."

Quinn leaves Santana standing in the closet, alone.

Santana's chest aches with something – too many emotions to name, a chaotic jumble pressing down on her heart.

She misses Quinn, though. Quinn has only been gone for a minute, but Santana already misses her.

Santana thinks she might be tired of waiting, too.


	7. Day 07: Free Day

Day 07: Free Day

_this hope is treacherous, and I like it_

When it happens, it surprises Santana.

Santana isn't looking for a way to change her life. In fact, she's pretty happy, as far as it goes - she lives in New York with Quinn, and they're doing the kind of grown up things that still, sometimes, feel like they should be happening to someone else. They bought a loft together about a year ago, and sometimes when Santana remembers that, it makes her feel strange. When did this happen? When did they stop being college kids living on ramen noodles and delivery Chinese food and become full-fledged, responsible adults? Homeowners, even?

Sometimes it jolts her when she sees Quinn, all dressed up in her professional pantsuits, on the way out to her job as a publicist. Santana remembers Quinn in red and white, in skirts, in a wheelchair. Sometimes she thinks that this person is no different – it's the same Quinn Santana has known for most of her life – but then, on some mornings.. when Quinn drinks coffee distractedly, while tapping on her iPhone and flipping through file folders, it makes Santana dizzy to realize that—Quinn isn't that gangly teenager anymore. Quinn is a woman.

It's even worse when she realizes that _she's_ a woman. An adult. A bonafide grown up. Yikes.

Santana has had a less stable job history over the course of her life than Quinn, but Quinn tolerates it with a kind of wry amusement that Santana appreciates. Right now, Santana is what is called a life coach – crazy, right? – and she's actually pretty good at it. New York is full of yuppies who actually kinda dig Santana's cut-the-crap attitude. Most of the others in Santana's line of work are wishy-washy coddlers who tell people everything is going to be okay. Santana doesn't operate like that; she's vicious and honest, and she kicks people into gear.

It's something she's been doing her whole life – who knew she could make such a killing doing it?

So, honestly, her life is going great. Santana is happy. She enjoys every single day as much as she possibly can – even mornings when she has to deal with spoiled forty-somethings with too much money and not enough gumption. Sometimes Santana genuinely gets to help people, and that's great. Quinn finds things for them to do as a young couple in the city – they go dancing, they joined a book club, they ride bikes in the summer and ice skate in the winter. They visit Lima around the holidays and take a vacation once a year. Last time, it was Quinn's turn to pick, and they spent ten days in New Orleans. This year, Santana wants to go somewhere overseas – she thinks maybe Greece or Australia.

Why in the world does she want to go and change things with a _baby?_

Santana doesn't like kids. She can barely tolerate all the babies her cousins keep having, the ones that show up every Christmas and at all of the family reunions. She has never expressed even the slightest interest in having a baby – yet, the urge to have one seems to have happened to her all at once. She woke up one day and the desire to have a baby was so strong it was almost like a physical ache, deep in her chest, niggling through her body, making her palms itch.

Now Santana has it – baby fever. She has it _bad._ When she helps mommies in sweatpants learn how to dress themselves again and how to function like a normal adult, she actually looks at their little brats and wants to hold them and stuff. She wants to clean up their snotty noses and play Legos and tea party. She even thinks they're cute, sorta.

It gets progressively worse when Rachel gets pregnant.

They kept in touch with some of the kids they went to high school with – Rachel, Kurt, Brittany. The ones they were closest to. Santana lived with Rachel and Kurt for a couple of years, and the four of them all still live in the city, so sometimes they get cocktails or go see a play together. Rachel met some real strange guy working for a Broadway magazine, and now she's knocked up.

She's dealing with it. Santana thinks it's kind of hippie and New Age-y of her to want to raise it without the man involved, but power to her and all that. If anyone would be able to do that kind of thing, and do it well, it's Rachel.

But as the months go by, and Rachel gets fat and plump and she talks about baby names and baby clothes, the ache inside of Santana intensifies.

One night, she pulls down the comforter and slides into bed. Quinn sits down a moment later, rubbing her hands together to work the moisturizer into her skin. Santana doesn't know why she decides to do it now – but she looks over at Quinn and blurts out, "I want to have a baby."

Quinn turns, slowly, and regards her. Quinn's hair is long and darker, now, than it was when they were kids; somewhere around age twenty-five she quit dying it. It makes her look more distinguished, Santana thinks, though sometimes she misses Quinn's lighter hair.

"Do you mean, like, borrow one?" Quinn's eyebrows pinch together. "Is your cousin Marsela pregnant again?"

Santana lets out a short laugh. "No. I mean, I want to have a baby, Quinn."

Quinn's eyebrows shoot upwards. Santana's fingers grip the bedspread nervously, worrying the material between her fingers. The silence hangs between them, thick and heavy, for a very long moment.

"You want to have a baby?" Quinn asks it again, as if she can't believe it.

"I want _us_ to have a baby." Santana clarifies. Her heart is thudding dully in her chest – she doesn't know she she's so nervous, all of the sudden.

Quinn's face freezes, for an instant, before she frowns. "You do?"

"Yes!" Santana can't help the way nerves make her voice tremble. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

"It's just.." Quinn runs a hand through her hair. "I never expected – you never said anything about it before."

Santana shrugs. "I guess I never thought about it or anything."

Quinn nods, slowly, thoughtfully.

Another silence hangs between them – and Santana studies the side of Quinn's face, trying to discern her thoughts. She's getting nothing. Quinn always was good at that – keeping herself under wraps. It's also always driven Santana crazy.

"So.. is that a problem?" Santana asks.

Quinn blinks. "No. I just –" She shakes her head. "I thought – I don't know. I thought it would be _me_ asking _you_ to have kids. It's taking me a second to adjust."

Slowly, a grin spreads over Santana's face. "But we can?"

"What?"

"Can we have a baby?"

Quinn laughs. "I kind of thought we'd get married first. But, yes. Yes, I want to have a baby with you, Santana."

Santana feels warmth spread from the center of her chest and radiate outwards, down the length of her arms and up to her face. Still grinning, she pulls Quinn's hand up to her face. Her skin smells like lavender lotion, and it's a little damp, but Santana kisses Quinn's knuckles anyway.

"I'm kinda glad I got stuck with you, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn laughs quietly, and rubs her thumb over Santana's fingers. "I'm kinda glad, too."

After a moment, another thought dawns on Santana. "Did you say – marriage? You want to get _married?"_

Quinn nods. "Yeah. Don't you?"

Santana chuckles. "You're gonna have to do better than that if you want me to marry you, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn grins. "I had planned to. But you caught me off guard with all of this baby talk."

Amused, Santana leans over to kiss Quinn on the cheek. "You'll have to make it up to me, somehow."

"Oh, is that so?" Quinn's eyebrow quirks. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, for starters –" Santana tugs on the collar of Quinn's pajama shirt.

Quinn laughs, rolling her eyes. "I should have guessed."

"Get naked, Fabray," Santana says, and simultaneously starts edging Quinn's shirt upwards.

"I want a ring, too, you know," Quinn says, allowing Santana to peel her clothes off. "White gold band. Propose somewhere scenic, like the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Are you serious?" Santana sounds incredulous. "Are you really telling me how you want to be proposed to, right now?"

"Make sure the diamond is sizable, but not tacky," Quinn continues, ignoring Santana's scowl. "I want flowers, too."

"You're unbelievable," Santana says, straddling Quinn.

Quinn smiles up at her. "Thanks."

Shaking her head, Santana laughs. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You've got the rest of your life to figure it out," Quinn tells her, and her smile softens. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Santana presses her lips against Quinn's softly. "So much."

"Let's make a baby," Quinn says, grinning.

Santana chuckles, nuzzling her face into Quinn's neck. "We can try."

* * *

A/N: Sorry this one was kinda short, guys. I ran out of time.

I really enjoyed writing for Quinntana week, and I hope everyone else enjoyed reading it! I want to thank you for your continued readership and support. It means a lot to me.


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